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Hank Long’s First Voyage. 




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LISIURY of CONSnESS 
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JUN 5 iy08 

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To Genie, Peep, Chadee, Nem, Tady, Jane, 
Spankaboo and Ba— These Pages 
are Affectionately 
Dedicated. 


Daniel Whiteord. 


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Copyright, 1908 , hy Daniel Whitford. 




Hank Long’s First Voyage. 


During a vacation in the summer of 1883 I drifted to a city 
on the New England coast that had in earlier times been 
celebrated as a fitting out place for whaling boats. Unac- 
quainted with any of the people about me, I had nothing to 
do but read, walk about the streets, sit upon the wharves, or 
explore the numerous ships that lay rotting at them; these 
examinations I made over and over again, trying to picture 
to myself the vessels braving the storms of the south seas 
often and again or returning to port gaily signaling to the 
people on the house tops who were on the lookout for their 
homecoming ; but they were broken-down hulks now and with 
those that had manned them were to see no more service for 
the rest of their existence. The discovery of mineral oil had 
put both ships and men out of commission. 

Sometimes I would meet an old man who had been a 
sailor and who frequented the wharf where I was lounging; he 
was always ready to talk, but uninteresting in his conversa- 
tion. I learned this from him, however, that there were a 


9 


good many retired seamen in the town and that they had 
some gathering places among which was a smith’s repair shop, 
and he volunteered to take me to the place and introduce me 
to its frequenters. As I might learn something from them of 
the history of the ships that I had been exploring, I gladly 
accepted his offer. 

The place was large, and at some time had carried on a 
thriving business, as there were forges for a good many 
workmen, but two men, idle half the time, attended now to 
all the work there was to do. The hospitality of the place 
'was never denied to any one, the proprietors always seeming 
glad to see their neighbors or strangers who might come in. 

I was cordially received by half a dozen men who were sit- 
ting about smoking; a few words passed and, lighting my 
pipe, I dropped into the crowd as if I belonged to it. Then 
the conversation, which my coming had interrupted, went on 
again. It was about the personal adventures of those who 
made up the group and had been repeated over and over again 
so many times that I must have been welcome, as I was a new 
and rather attentive listener. I soon found that their stories 
were of commonplace events, such as we have all read about, 
fighting whales, cruising among the islands, being blown 
hither and thither by hurricanes, working at the pumps of 
leaking ships until pumping became useless, then taking to 


10 


small boats; none of them had ever served on any of the 
ships in the harbor. Their stories were told in a simple way 
without the least attempt at dramatic effort, and, so far as I 
could judge, without much exaggeration. 

There was one man among them of quite different mental 
type from the rest. His name was Henry Long and, though 
they referred to him a good deal about the names of places 
and localities, he had at first no stories of his own to tell. 
From the little that he said, however, it was evident that he 
had far more imagination, more appreciation of what the ad- 
ventures that were being recounted meant to those who lis- 
tened, and had not heard them before, than any of the rest. 
When I induced him to talk freely, as I did some days later 
on, what he told was given in rather dramatic form; he pre- 
sented it to his listeners so that they could see as well as 
hear'it. He was very clear and intelligent, too; never getting 
muddled or mixed up as the others did, and seemed fairly 
well educated. 

I have said that his type was different mentally from the 
others, but the physical difference between them was quite as 
marked. He was neatly dressed, did not wear a beard, and 
the few streaks of gray in his dark hair were about the only 
marks of age that he bore. His^eyes, dark also, could certainly 
not have been brighter or more intelligent in his youth. Those 


11 


about him seemed to show him unusual respect as they said 
he was a smart fellow and liberally supplied with money by 
one of his old shipmates. Slightly built, he was still quick 
and active and in his narration had none of the drawl or 
nasal intonation with which all the others were affected. 

After we had met half a dozen times, we began to feel 
pretty well acquainted, and he seemed disposed to be talka- 
tive. Some of the men had said to me: ‘^Git Hank to tell 
you about his first voyage at sea, if you can; the first whalin’ 
voyage; if he feels just right he can tell it bully.” So one 
day I began upon him. 

“1 suppose that you were bom here, Mr. Long ?” 

‘‘Ho, Hantucket, sixty-seven years ago last March. A bad 
year I heard tell; floods in Germany, cold weather and hard 
times here and very little to eat.” 

“And you have always lived by or on the sea?” 

“I don’t remember to have lived anywhere else or to have 
heard of livin’ anywhere else. My father was a sailor, be- 
longed to the navy. The folks about where I lived was all 
sailor folks, and the talk was all about goin’ to sea and the 
like, and about the stoutest man at whalin’. I heard the 
stories and I couldn’t grow fast enough to suit me — I wanted 


12 


to be a sailor, too. At last I got old enough to get on a boat 
runnin’ to the West Injees; that was a great day in my life.” 

‘^And you had been at school ?” 

had jDicked up some eddecation. My mother had been a 
school teacher an’ she helped me, too. Yes, for the times, I 
had some lamin’. But I never thought much of it. Get to 
sea, that was all that was in my mind. Our house was a 
pleasant place and we children all thought a lot of each oth- 
er. I don’t know whether I was homesick or not after I 
went away, but I do know that night after night when I was 
sailin’ on the ocean I could see ’em all sittin’ around at home 
as plain as I can see you. I got some money out of it to 
send home and when I got back, I had lots of stories to tell ’em 
at home about what I had seen. When I was seventeen years 
old, I Joined the crew of the Mary Ann, fittin’ out for a whal- 
in’ voyage. I had got to be an able seaman, about as big as 
I am now; I never weighed more than a hundred an’ thirty 
pounds in my life; nothin’ to boast of, anyway, but what I 
lacked in size I made up in other ways. The crew was made 
up of all sorts of folks, a little Irish, a little Dutch, a nigger 
to cook, an’ the rest folks from along the coast ; all grown-up 
men but two, me and Bill Barton, a boy two year older than 
me an’ shipped from over here. The boat was out more than 
four year; it took time in them days, things wasn’t done by 


13 


steam and lightnin’, but I didn’t come back in her an’ by and 
by I’ll tell you why. 

Anybody that thinks a sailor’s life in them days was all fun, 
had better try somethin’ like it and find out, if there is any- 
thin’ goin’ on like it now. It wasn’t at all pleasant goin’ 
round the Horn ; nasty headwinds, big seas cornin’ aboard, 
sails torn to pieces, rain and snow. Every sailor knows all 
about it ; an’ the Pacific, when we got to it, wasn’t none of the 
smoothest neither; when it starts to roll up waves it keeps the 
reputation of bein’ the biggest ocean goin’. 

Me an’ Bill, bein’ nearest of an age, was most together. Bill 
was a handsome feller and a good feller; sweet disposition; 
give up anything he had if he liked a feller an’ was treated 
right, an’ when he come to actin’ he always thought about 
himself last ; but he was this way : When he got a notion in 
liis head it was right or wrong with him; if he thought it 
was right, he liked to stick it out and work it out his own 
way, as well as Any feller I ever see; an’ he wouldn’t talk to 
nobody about it or ask how to do it. 

When I say he was a handsome feller, I don’t mean what 
women folks call pretty, he wasn’t that, but^he was tall, well 
built, and the muscles on his arms an’ legs stood out like whip 
cords. He was as strong as a young bull, an’ as active as 
a deer. He had a mighty good face, soft large brown eyes. 


14 


an’ when he talked to j^ou, he looked right at you; then his 
eyes affected you almost as much as his voice did. He never 
shirked work, was always ready to do his part an’ more than 
his part, whether it was takin’ care of the ship in rough seas 
or killin’ whales; almost reckless of his life he was when he 
took a notion; but, for all I’ve said, I don’t believe that 
there was a man aboard, but me, that liked him. They didn’t 
understand him ; he was too big for ’em, that was the reason. 
He could pick up what was goin’ on quick, quicker than 
anybody else on the ship, an’ when he had got it he said so 
right out. He didn’t believe that a man that had been twenty 
year alearnin’ it, knew it any better than he did, ’specially if 
that man wan’t very smart. “There must be an end to it 
somewheres,” he said, “you can’t always pound away on one 
thing,” an’ when he thought he knew a thing, he wouldn’t pay 
"attention to anybody that was tryin’ to tell him; he’d do it, 
obey orders, but do it in his own way. He was always pretty 
close with everybody about what he was doin’ or goin’ to do, 
that give the folks aboard the idea that he thought he knowed 
it all, but he wan’t a bit proud of what he knowed, only you 
couldn’t boss him. 

He had been livin’ somewheres over in Connecticut doin’ 
Z chores for his board and goin’ to school. One day he done 

somethin’ the master didn’t like an’ he called Bill up an’ told 
him he was goin’ to lick him. Bill said he might have done 


15 


wrong, he was willin’ to admit it anyway, an’ he would say 
or do anything the master said was reasonable; but he 
wouldn’t let him whip him; anything else he might do, but 
whippin’ was for niggers an’ dogs an’ he wouldn’t be whipped 
by nobody. 

The master was pretty high with him and told him to take 
his coat off. Bill laughed at him ; said he wouldn’t do it an’ 
he had better not strike him either ; if he did he might get hit 
back. At that the feller got awful mad, an’ as he couldn’t 
make Bill do as he wanted to, he gave him a cut across the 
side of his face with his stick. Then Bill took right hold of 
him ; he was a big feller, but Bill took the stick right out of 
his hands and pounded him over the head with it till the 
blood run. Then he took him by the collar, the fight was all 
out of the feller by this time, an’ run him out of the school 
house, kickin’ him all the way. It was the first time Bill 
knowed how strong he was, and he felt now that he had 
growed to be a man. That was Bill Barton. 

Of course he couldn’t go to school there any more, so he 
said he thought he was just about wicked enough to be a 
sailor an’ he come and joined this crew. The best men in the 
country went to sea in them days; ’taint so any more. He 
was full of fun, laughin’ all the time, but there was somethin’ 
about him that, leavin’ his good build and looks out, made 


16 


him seem a better man than any of us. I don’t know what it 
was, but it was there plain enough when we was all together. 
I see it and knowed it and the rest must have seen it, though 
him and me was the only ones aboard that ovraed up to it. 

I talked it right out and got the whole crew down on me 
for sayin’ it. They couldn’t pick on Bill, didn’t dare to, but 
they tried to laugh at me and make believe they thought I was 
a fool for takin’ so much to him. 

^‘What’s amiss with Bill?” I says. “He’s the smartest, 
strongest, and handsomest feller on the ship ; an’ you all know 
it, too, if you’ll own up true.” 

Then they all laughed. 

^Tjaughin’ ain’t no answer,” I says, “anybody can laugh; 
it’s pretty cheap.” 

One of the men answered back : 

“It’s just right you be; but speakin’ of laughin’ a man 
laughs because he’s tickled, or laughs because he’s happy, or 
laughs because he’s glad to see yer, but I know a feller that 
don’t laugh that way ; he’s grinnin’ all the time just to show 
what good teeth he’s got in his head. I don’t call no names; 
mebbe you don’t know who I mean.” And then they all 
laughed again as loud as they could. 


17 


‘‘If you had as nice teeth as Bill Barton,” I says, “you’d be 
tyin’ a string around your upper lip to keep your mouth open 
all the time so folks could see ’em; the Lord knows your 
mouth is open enough now most of the time; I wouldn’t talk 
about teeth if I was you. You don’t grin to show yourn.” 

Now this feller had rotten, dirty teeth. Everybody knowed 
it, an’ he was mad in a minute. 

“You’re a saucy, impudent little devil !” he says. “Insultin’ cC 

men old enough to be 3'^our grandfather, an’ the ship would be 
better off if you and one other feller was pitched overboard. 

I hain’t fussin’ with my teeth all the while and they may 
not look so awful nice, I chaw, and some other folks don’t, 
but I don’t give out to them around me, better men than I 
be, that I know it all; that I’m so awful smart that they 
can’t tell me nothin’; an’ I don’t try to tell men that lamed 
their business afore I was born, just what to do.” 

“You couldn’t do it anyways,” I says. “If you found any- 
body alive now that learned their work before you was born, 
they’d be so old they couldn’t hear you an’ wouldn’t know 
what you was a talkin’ about anyhow.” 

With that he jumps up to lick me, but some of the rest put 
in gittin’ between us. 


18 


“Let him alone, Sam,” they says. “He’s awful saucy, that’s 
a fact, but he’s been in bad company lately and besides we 
begun on him and made him mad. He’s showed a good deal 
of spunk, an’ you shan’t hurt him.” 

After that they let me alone. They was awful sour to me 
but I was so dead sure I was right that I didn’t care much 
for what they thought or how they acted. I’d sooner have 
Bill than all the rest together. 

I don’t believe Bill understood or knew how the folks aboard 
felt about him or what they thought of him; he didn’t seem 
to. He knew, well enough, that I liked him an’ understood 
him, an’ I guess he thought the rest liked him too, just as they 
liked each other, but that they didn’t show it much. Of 
course I didn’t tell him that they had pitched on to me or 
that there was a soul aboard that was down on him. If he 
didn’t find it out it wan’t my business to blab it an’ he wan’t 
hurt by not knowin’ it. So he kept right on makin’ pretty 
free with the whole crowd from the captain down, but never 
doin’ a thing that they could lay hands on. What he said was 
got off in such a genteel way that they’d just turned up their 
noses an’ walked off, wouldn’t talk mean to him, though I sup- 
pose they felt like it pretty often, an’ though he didn’t do 
his work as they did, it always come out right, so of course 
nobody could complain. 


19 


Well, we took to each other more an’ more; it may be the 
way the rest acted made me think more about him, an’ we 
was together so much and 1 liked him so well that I was glad 
enough to let him have his own way, about all the time. Not 
that he insisted on it, if he had he wouldn’t have got it, but, as 
I say, I liked him and he liked me, an’ he didn’t insist on 
anything and so, little by little, he come to set the pace for me 
until after a while whenever he says to me, ^‘Hank, don’t you 
want to do this or that” I always says ^^yes” whether I want- 
ed to do it or not, coz I knew he had made up his mind to it 
an’ wanted it done an’ would feel bad if I said no, an’ I 
knew he would do it better if he done it in his own way, an’ 
it would all come out as good. 

The captain was good enough but pretty stiff with me an’ 
Bill. I guess he was a little afraid of our doing somethin’ 
out of the way least ways afraid Bill might git into a scrape 
an’ he knew I would foller. So he didn’t let us go ashore. 
When Bill first come aboard he told some of the crew that he 
would be in command of a ship in less than six year. The 
captain heard of it an’, though he pretended to laugh, he didn’t 
like it a bit, seein’ he was pretty near fifty afore he got a ship 
to handle. I asked Bill about it an’ he says, '‘Why, Hank; 
what of it; it’s been done a good many times before. I pick 
up things pretty quick an’ I tell you, as I told the others. I’ll 
have a ship to handle before I’m six year older, an’ I’ll give you 


20 


a good chance in it, too, my boy; an’ I believed him; for he 
talked so I could almost see him runnin’ that ship. 

AVe stopped at two or three places in the Sandwich Islands. 
The men could go ashore about when they liked, but we 
couldn’t. We could see the land from the boat, an’ the folks 
that lived on it sometimes come aboard, an’ we got what the 
crew told us an’ they used to tell pretty big yarns, when they 
come back, of what they had seen and what they had done on 
shore, till we got a little uneasy; the old ship began to look 
lonesome enough, I can tell you, an’ Bill says to me one day. 
“Hank, we’ll cut out some night ourselves an’ see what there 
is to all this shore business,” but there wasn’t no chance and 
we liad to make the best of it an’ give it up then. 

I . We caught a good many fish an’ we went through some hard 
blows an’ we stopped at some places to get water, but neither 
Bill nor me set foot on shore in all this time an’, though I be- 
lieve that on the whole we was pretty good boys, there is a 
limit an’ a boy finds it a good deal quicker than a man. So, 
after a long stretch, when we anchored in the bay of a large 
island Bill put in a petition for both of us to go ashore. The 
captain shook his head. Hobody knowed anything much about 
the inliabitants of the island he said. The natives was awfully 
shy of white folks — might be cannibals; an’ nobody knowed 
how many there was of ’em. They went naked, ate their 


21 


victuals raw, an’ while they was good lookin’ people enough, 
was the least civilized of any that had been visited yet in these 
parts. 

On account of the good holdin’ ground, an’ the fresh water, 
vessels come here sometimes, but the folks aboard of ’em, with 
one or two exceptions, never had had any communication with 
the people of the island. He was goin’ to send eight men 
ashore for water, three to mount guard an’ five to fill up. 
They want to budge away from the shore on any account, an’ 
if they was molested they was to fire off a gun an’ the whole 
crew would come ashore and help ’em. He hoped there wouldn’t 
be any trouble. Any way Bill and me might think ourselves 
lucky if we was left safe in the ship without havin’ to take the 
chances of bein’ eat up. Then he laughed, thinkin’ how he had 
scared Bill; but he hadn’t scared him, he’d just made him 
uneasy and got him mad. He thought he was dealin’ with a 
boy that would take anything he give him, but Bill wasn’t none 
of that kind. You couldn’t work him that way. He had his 
own notions and he just acted on ’em. He wouldn’t act on 
anybody’s say so, even if it did come from the captain. 

Bill kept thinkin’ it over ; I see him goin’ about an’ knew he 
was mad about somethin’. After a while he comes up to me 
an’ tells me about his talk with the captain an’ the way the 
captain looked an’ acted. An’ he says: 


22 


“Hank, the old man has, so fur, treated us pretty mean 
about goin’ ashore. I can’t make out why he does it, or what 
he means by it, but you see it plain as I do. He thinks this 
time that he’s infernal smart an’ that nobody else knows any- 
thing. Now, I don’t know how you feel, but I would just 
like to sniff ground again to git this smell of rotten blubber 
out of my nose. I’ve had that feelin’ for a good while, an’ I 
know you have, too, but fur some reason, it’s come on me 
awful strong now. I didn’t have it much until the old man 
undertook to give me chaff; that brought right before me the 
way he’d been actin’. Now, if you agree to it, we’ll cut out 
tonight an’ go ashore, if we don’t stay there more than twenty 
minutes. What ails me is a kind of homesickness or shore sick- 
ness, I guess, an’ a little while ashore will cure it; what do 
you say ?” 

“Swim ashore ?” 

“Lord, no; we couldn’t do it in the dark; besides we’d be 
all wet an’ feel mean, an’ the old man might say we was 
sneakin’. We’ll take the little boat, slip, her over the side when 
we go, an’ pull her up quiet enough when we come back. No- 
body will know anything about it now. We can dodge the 
watch easy enough. We’ll go in with the tide, stay ashore fur 
awhile, then lay in the boat till the tide turns an’ come back, 
nobody any wiser, but some day we’ll laugh at the old man 


23 


about it an’ let him know he wasn’t so awful smart after all. 
What do you say?” 

“Why, of course, I say whatever you say. Bill ; but it seems 
to me, that while it’s pretty easy to talk, it ain’t the easiest 
thing in the world to do. The boat is a little light thing, I 
know, but even so, you can’t handle her as you handle a basket. 
It’s a good long stretch from the deck to the water. If we let 
her nose first, she’ll fill, an ” 

“Never mind. Hank,” he says, “I’ve thought it all out, it’s 
easy enough. We carry the boat to pretty near the stern, give 
her a good long rope, tie the oars in her and sling her over, 
drawin’ the rope around the rail; there she hangs. I swing 
down the side to the water, you let her down slow. Wlien she 
comes to the water I take her. You swing down an’ there we 
are ; that ain’t much to do.” 

“What do you say ?” 

“All right ; what time ?” 

“Eleven o’clock tonight; he said so many bells, but it 
meant eleven o’clock. It will be so dark you can’t see to count 
your fingers. The tide turns at two, and will bring us back 
quick enough. By half past two, we will be snug in our berths. 
Now don’t think about it until the time comes, or look as if 
you thought about it, if you do, some of ’em will catch us.” 


24 


The men went ashore, got the water, and come back all 
right. They said they see some of the natives from a distance, 
but didn’t get to talk to ’em, as they might have done by signs. 
A fine country, they said, no brush, fiowers all around. The 
tall trees that we could see, were full of cocoanuts just ripe. 
Land risin’ from the sea as you went back, and the lookout 
from the bay, was great. Everybody crowded about to hear 
what they had to tell, except Bill an’ me ; we pretended not to 
pay attention to it. 

So night came, an’ all except the watch went to sleep, an’ 
we was down to be sleepin’ with the rest. We took off our 
shoes an’ stockin’s, an’ our jackets, fur we didn’t want to be 
tied up with more than we could help. Bill’s arrangement 
turned out all right. We got the boat in the water, the watch 
didn’t catch us, an’ we got in her an’ rowed ashore. Bill was 
all right in his calculations; the tide was runnin’ in, it was 
awful dark, an’ nobody could see us; that is, we thought no- 
body could, an’ we had good reason to think so. 

We drew the boat up on the sand, so far that she wouldn’t 
float off an’ then we walked up the beach. There wasn’t 
much of anything to see, dark as it was, but there was no 
hurry, the tide wouldn’t turn for a good while yet, so we went 
towards the woods strollin’ around, an’ at last, pretty tired, 
come back to where we had left the boat. At first Bill thought 


25 


he had missed the place, but after huntin’ around, he pretty 
sudden began to guess that it was the boat he missed, an’ he 
guessed, too, that she had been took away, an’ he guessed right 
both times. 

“The old man has caught us this time,” he says, “sent in 
right after us an’ took the boat away from us while we was 
loafin’; that’s the whole story. He’s chucklin’, thinkin’ we’ll 
have to swim to the ship, but we won’t. He will send in fur us 
in the mornin’ or let us stay here. We won’t swim; I won’t, 
an’ I know you’ll stand by me; let’s go somewhere’s and lie 
down.” 

I didn’t answer ’cause I couldn’t. Some fellers had me by 
the arms an’ one of ’em had his hand over my mouth. ’Twasn’t 
none of our crew either. I brushed around, tryin’ to get away ; 
that caught Bill’s attention an’ he come right up to me; but 
he was caught the same way an’ there we was. It was so dark 
we couldn’t tell how many there was of ’em that had caught us, 
but there was a good many; enough. We couldn’t do any- 
thing with ’em, an’ as they tied up our mouths, we couldn’t 
talk to each other; so away we all went. After we had gone 
about a mile we come to some more folks carryin’ somethin’. 
It was so dark, at first, that I couldn’t make out what it was, 
but pretty soon it occurred to me that it was our little boat; 
and so it turned out. After the two parties had come together, 


26 


we all set off in single file (the path was only wide enough for 
one), an’ walked as much as nine or ten mile. This brought 
us to a lot of huts, or what pretended to be huts, built from the 
branches of cocoanut trees an’, tired an’ foot sore, we was glad 
enough to set down. They took the stuff off our mouths an’ 
we began to talk. Bill spoke first. 

“I am afraid. Hank, I have got you into a bad, bad, scrape 
this trip ; these folks may kill an’ eat us. It’s awful to think 
of, an’ he groaned a little.” 

I was a good deal worried, I suppose you may say I was 
scared, but it never was my way to take on when I got into 
trouble; perhaps I didn’t feel the danger here as Bill did; I 
didn’t know as much, so I thought I’d laugh him out of it if 
I could, an’ says to him : “If they do. Bill, they’ll get a lot 
more off your bones than they do from mine. I have always 
envied your size, a big nice lookin’ feller, an’ me so little, How 
I may not be worth eatin’, but you ” 

“I tell you it’s awful business,” he says; “no time for 
jokin’; we are facin’ death, with the chances big against us. 
The old man was right an’ I was a fool ; I know it now when 
it’s too late. I don’t care so much about it myself, though I 
don’t want to die either, young as I am, but you ” 


27 


“Don^t mind me,” I said; “I ain’t jokin’; I’m just as se- 
rious as I ever was in my life, but this is the way I make it 
out. We’re caught, an’ we can’t do anythin’ to help oureslves ; 
if we’re to be eat, we’ll be eat; if we ain’t, we won’t. We 
might as well laugh as cry, they won’t eat us any quicker fur 
our laughin. The folks at the ship will try to find us, an 
if they give these fellers a few nails, they’ll let us go. The cap- 
tain won’t go away an’ leave us in a scrape like this, though we 
may not have done just what he thinks right.” 

‘^There’s a lot in that,” he says, ‘‘an’ it’s about the only hope 
we’ve got. If they don’t get us out of here we are gone. We 
can’t get out ourselves, there’s too many against us. I wouldn’t 
mind a dozen or so, but there’s nothin’ to be done when there’s 
more than a hundred. If they don’t eat us, which they are 
like enough to do, and if the folks at the ship don’t help us 
out, they may keep us here as long as we live. I can’t bear to 
think about it; it’s awful. Hank, an’ I have ruined you, just 
because I wanted to be a little smart.” 

“If I wasn’t so sleepy,” I says; “I could think about it 
well enough, but I can’t keep my eyes open or my head agoin’ 
to think of anythin’. I’m so dead tired. If we both go to 
sleep we can think it over a good deal better when we wake up, 
unless we find ourselves stewin’ in the pot; worn out an’ 


28 


scared as we be, we ain’t in no condition to think/’ an’ savin’ 
that, I stretched ont an’ went to sleep.” 

guess Bill slept some, too, though not as much as me. 
He w'asn’t selfish a bit an’ he wasn’t no coward, but he felt bad, 
to think he’d got in this scrape an’, a good deal worse to 
think he’d got me in it, too, for my troubles all come of foller- 
in’ him, an’ he couldn’t see any way to set me right or himself 
either. 

I slept heavy an’ long, but at last I had a confused notion 
that some one was a scratchin’ of me about the chest an’ 
throat ; then, little by little, I come to think where I was an' 
what goin’ on. It was broad daylight an’ twenty or thirty 
men an’ w^omen stood around us. We wore calico shirts an’ 
tow trousers. They was a pluckin’ Bill like a fowl, his shirt 
'Was olf, an’ they was just tearin’ off his trousers, an’ they’d 
begun to strip my shirt off my back ; that’s what waked me up. 
My shirt an’ trousers went quick enough, an’ there we was. 
They tore the cloth all into strips, but instead of usin’ it to 
cover their bodies, they tied up their hair with it, an’ some 
of the pieces they put around their necks; then they seemed 
to think they was awful fine, struttin’ like a flock of turkeys. 
We didn’t want to lose our cloths, but what they might do with 
us was of so much more consequence, that we didn’t think of 
a little matter like that. I looked around to see what kind of 


29 


folks we had fallen in with, though I was almost afraid to look, 
fur when we come in it was so dark, we couldn’t get any idea 
of them. About the same size as other islanders these were 
not bad looking, their faces were tatooed like the rest an’ their 
frozely heads was familiar enough, but they was the first folks 
I had ever seen that didn’t wear cloths of any kind. The line 
had been drawn pretty close sometimes among them that came 
on the ship, but these folks hadn’t nothing to cover them an’ 
seemed to think no more about it than if they had all been 
dressed in purple an’ fine linen. So, there they was an’ here 
we was, an’ the question was whether they would eat us, give 
us somethin’ to eat, or let us go back to the ship. The last 
question was settled quick enough for when we started to 
move half a dozen ugly-lookin’ fellers with clubs come in front 
of us an’ shook their heads. That was enough; we give up 
for that time; then they give us some water an’ somethin’ to 
eat, I don’t know what it was; somethin’ that grew on the 
island an’ tasted like cabbage, an’ in the afternoon we got 
some raw fish, no salt on any of the victuals; but we could 
eat anything by that time. We didn’t ever see any meat 
among them, except the fiesh of some birds, an’ we never seen 
anj-thing that made us think they was cannibals. They didn’t 
make any show of eatin’ us ; they didn’t fight with any of their 
neighbors, so there wasn’t no prisoners to eat, an’, of course, 
they wouldn’t eat each other. There was a good many young 


30 


girls from fourteen to twenty years old, perhaps, we judged 
by their looks, they didn’t know nothin’ about their ages, an’ 
they used to do a good deal of the hard work ; fishin’ and pro- 
vidin’ things. A good many little children, too, there was. 
The men was awfully lazy. There wasn’t more than two or 
or three hundred of ’em on the island anyway ; we found that 
out after awhile, an’ we found that they wasn’t such terrible 
folks as tlie sailors had told of, though in somethings they was 
in a pretty savage low-down condition. Of course they would 
snatch an3^thin’ they could lay hands on, but that was natural 
enough ; they didn’t know any better. 

For five or six days we kept hopin’ that help would come 
from the ship, watched all the time for a chance to escape, if 
we could, but we got neither help nor the chance to run, and 
after awhile Bill said, ‘‘Hank, it’s all over; we’ve got to make 
the best of it,” an’ so we did. 

The people lived all together on the rocky side of the island, 
a pretty difficult place for boats to come, if they could ever 
get there at all ; high land, sharp rocks under water, bad for 
those that couldn’t locate ’em, an’ a big surf rollin’ all the 
time, sometimes coverin’ up what beach there was. The reason 
of their livin’ here, I guess, was to keep out of the way of the 
sea an’ so that troublesome neighbors couldn’t get at ’em ; if 
anybody landed on the island they must come by way of the 


31 


bay, that would give plenty of time for these folks to get out 
of the way, they could fight or, if too many come against ’em 
scatter over the island. Some other islanders had come a good 
while before an’ carried off some of their women an’ they had 
got kind of cautious. 

They was a little harsh with us fur the first few months, 
watched us close, an’ wouldn’t let us go fur from where they 
was. We knew well enough by this time that they didn’t 
mean to eat us, but what they wanted of us an’ why they acted 
so, we couldn’t make out. One thing was certain though ; they 
wanted us to live as they lived, to act like them, an’ it was 
pretty clear to us that they meant to make us do it, too, for 
when Bill tried to rig up breech clouts for him an’ me out of 
some leaves they laughed at us an’ tore ’em all to pieces ; so we 
gave it up an’ went round as we were, though it made us feel 
pretty mean. 

After awhile Bill says to me one day, "Hank, I don’t see 
any chance of gittin’ away from here unless it’s by some ship 
that comes to the bay for water. A ship might not come in 
ten years, but these folks won’t let us go to the bay, an’ so 
that chance, little as it is’ ain’t worth nothin’. Now here it 
is ; we must make better folks of these poor creeters, or they’ll 
make savages of us as they’re atryin’ to do. Some things about 
this life ain’t so bad; it’s healthy enough; but it’s awful to 


32 


think of our wastin’ our lives in this way. If we give up to 
these folks, let ’em run us down, an’ we ever git away from 
here we won’t be good for nothin’ ; we must keep up our char- 
acters some way while we are here. I don’t want to be a sav- 
age an’ I know you don’t neither. Now I got you into this 
scrape an’ I want to do all I can to keep your head above water 
till you can, perhaps, catch a plank an’ then — and then — ” 
the tears come in his eyes as he talked an’ he looked at me 
very hard as he went on. 

would give up my life. Hank, to get you out of this, seein’ 
the wrong I done you, but givin’ my life won’t do you any 
good, so we must do the best we can.” 

“There ain’t no chief among these folks, that was what they 
fought about an’ the side that didn’t want a chief won ; I have 
found out so much. I’m pickin’ up their lingo pretty fast an’ 
I am stronger an’ smarter than any of ’em in the things that 
they think themselves the smartest; that ain’t sayin’ much 
but it’s so. I can outswim ’em, outrun ’em, and outclub ’em. 
Now, if I can show ’em that I am smarter than they be, that 
I can do the things that they set so much by better than they 
can, I can get hold enough on ’em to do ’em a lot of good in 
other ways an’ help you an’ me at the same time. I am goin’ 
to try anyway. I can’t do very much perhaps, but I am 
pretty patient when I start in an’ generally git in the end what 
I want.” 


33 


From that time on we treated the islanders just as if we had 
been born among ’em an’ belonged to ’em. Bill was, of course, 
a long way ahead of me in everything. He was larger an’ 
stronger an’ he knew a sight better how to do it than I did, 
but I was pretty good for a little feller, too. These folks 
thought a good deal about swimmin’, an’ Bill in a little while 
was the fastest and strongest swimmer among ’em an’ the 
most fearless. We used to go outside the breakers to swim 
an’ I have seen him start after a lot of boys an’ girls, they 
generally swum faster than the men, catch the whole crowd, 
one after another, an’ hold ’em under water till they begged. 
They had logs, generally, but Bill got a big cocoanut tree log, 
twice as big as any of ’em that he could take hold of, an’ 
when he had that log, he wasn’t afraid of the biggest storm 
or the tallest surf. He could stay under water longer than 
any man or woman on the island an’ none of the men could 
come near him for speed in swimmin’ or for that matter in 
anythin’ else, and there wasn’t many white men that could 
do it either. 

By rubbin’ some sticks together he started a fire; the 
islanders knew about fire but they hadn’t any use for it; he 
had, an’ he cut up some fish an’ cooked it; at first they 
wouldn’t touch it that way, but after awhile they did eat it an’ 
seemed to like it, too ; an’ part of ’em after that used to git up 
their feed that way. There was a good many birds fiyin’ 


34 


around among the trees. These folks had been in a habit of 
ketchin’ a few of ’em an’ eatin’ ’em but Bill made some traps 
an’ caught a good many an’ cooked ’em, an’ he an’ me eat ’em, 
and the young folks among the islanders eat ’em that way, too. 
He dried up some sea water an ’made salt, pretty poor stuff it 
was, but we used it an’ began to feel more like Christians an’ 
civilized folks because we had civilized victuals to eat ourselves 
an’ because some of the folks around us come to eat civilized 
things. In this way I could see that Bill was takin’ a strong 
hold on the savages. He asked me what I thought ‘‘Your 
doin’ it. Bill,” I says, “your doin’ it because there ain’t no clap 
trap about you. They give up to you because they know you 
are a strong feller, stronger than any of ’em just as you said, 
an’ I guess they like you, too ; they act so anyhow.” 

^ We didn’t act as if we wanted to run away or as if we 
thought ourselves any better than the rest of folks. We just 
danced, swum an’ fished, an’ run about with the rest, an’ so 
time jogged on until more than two year had gone by. What 
Bill had done for these folks, the way he had talked to ’em, for 
he could talk to ’em pretty well now, what he had coaxed ’em 
to do, had done ’em lots of good an’ they was actin’ pretty 
decent. When we first come their way of eatin’ turned our 
stomachs; now partly ’cause we was used to ’em, an’ partly 
’cause they behaved so much better fur the trainin’ Bill had 


35 


given ’em, we didn’t think much about it. As fur us boys, we 
had got things in pretty good shape; plenty fur us to eat; 
though we wanted to git away awful bad, but didn’t know 
how. 

In the month of September I guess, yes, it was about the 
first of September, there come one of the biggest hurricanes I 
ever see. It blowed, and rained steady for three days; great 
guns! how it did blow; there was times when we almost 
thought the island itself was -movin’. Trees was blown down an’ 
the waves of the sea was so high that if we hadn’t been on 
pretty solid ground, we’d all been drowned. The natives had 
never seen anythin’ like it themselves; they had traditions of 
a big sea cornin’ ashore an’ drownin’ a good many folks an’ 
they was afraid this was goin’ to be the same thing over again. 
Scared as they was they run to Bill, just as folks in civilized 
countries run to a church when there’s a convulsion of nature. 
Bill himself didn’t like the look of it a bit, but he didn’t let 
on; he laughed at ’em, told ’em it was only a big wind an’ 
would blow itself out in a little while. He’d seen a good deal 
worse in the country he come from, an’ he talked to ’em so that 
in the worst of the storm he got ’em all laughin’ an’ cheered 
up, an’ they was’nt afraid any more. 

After awhile the wind went down an’ of course the storm 
was over. But the sea, 0 my ! it would scare you to look at it 


36 ’ 


an’ see them big waves break in on the rocks. Things was so 
upset that the sea didn’t let up for a whole month after, but 
the waves would come poundin’ in high as the mast an’ roarin’ 
as if they was agoin’ to tear everything to pieces that they hit. 
Of course there wasn’t any swimmin’; nobody dared to go 
near the surf then. 

It was somethin’ more than twenty day after the storm had 
let up. Bill an’ me was talkin’ about the way the surf kept 
poundin in, when one of the native girls come runnin’ to us 
callin’ out that there was a boat cornin’ right for the rocks, 
an’ the folks in her was all goin’ to be drowned. Bill was on 
the rocks in a minute, an’ I at his heels. A good many of the 
island folks had got there ahead of us an’ was lookin’ out to 
sea where, sure enough, in plain sight of all, was a ship’s boat, 
sail up, cornin’ before the wind an’ makin’ right fur that 
rocky shore. We could see that there was folks in her, but 
why they was lettin’ her run that way to their destruction, we 
couldn’t make out. 

Bill motioned ’em off. Motioned ’em to the sea, an’ then 
pointed towards the bay but they didn’t pay a bit of attention 
to it an’ the boat came right on as if she was doomed. Then 
Bill turned to me an’ says : 

'Tfs no use talkin’. Hank,” Bill says, "them folks are 
crazy or somethin’ awful is the matter. It can’t be that 


37 


they’re tryin’ to kill themselves, but that’s just what they’re 
doin’. I guess there ain’t nobody aboard that knows how to 
sail; that must be it, an’ unless somebody gits to ’em an’ 
sails for ’em, you see what’s cornin’.” 

He looked hard at the breakers an’ then at the boat again, 
then he says to me awful quiet: 

“I must git to that boat an’ take ’em to the bay; I have a 
feelin’ strong upon me that I must an’ there ain’t over much 
time, to git to ’em either, if I ever do; so I’ll say good-bye 
now an’ try to swim out.” I says: “Don’t try it. Bill, don’t 
go. You can do a lot, I know, but the man don’t live that 
can git through such a surf to that boat. Oh, don’t. Bill, 
don’t try it; don’t; don’t; it’s only throwing your life away!” 
An’ I begun to cry an’ bawl. He looked at me pretty hard 
an’ pretty down-hearted, an’ 1 thought he was weakenin’ but 
he only says to me in the same way, ever so quiet : 

“Hank, I must do the best I can. I guess I am strong 
enough to git through them breakers. I don’t belittle the 
danger of it a bit, it will be awful hard work, but I’m pretty 
strong, stronger, I guess than you think. Them folks on the 
boat have come from some wreck of course, but somethin’ is 
the matter with them besides ship-wreck. Somethin’ has 
brought ’em so fur, an’, if there’s life in ’em, an’ there 


38 


must be by the way they trim their boat, I’ll save it. You may 
be right in sayin’ I’m tryin’ to do more than I can, but it’s 
puttin’ up the chances of savin’ a whole lot against loosin’ 
one life an’ a life I don’t set so much by either if the time 
has come to lay it down. There ain’t no time to dispute now. 
Hank, that boat’s cornin’ on too fast an’ I need all my 
strength. If I don’t git through keep close watch of the bay, 
for some ship’s cornin’ an’ take good care of yourself anyway. 

He put his arm about my neck. I tried to hang on to him, 
but he was so strong that he shook me off as if I had been a 
child an’ away he went down the rocks an’ into that boilin’ 
surf. 

It had been so sudden that I stood with my mouth open 
eryin’ away as hard as I could put in ; but in a minute or two 
I come to myself an’ I cried a good deal harder when I felt 
that I would never see Bill alive again. It all come upon me 
then how much I liked him, an’ if I could have changed places 
with him, had him safe ashore an’ me out facin’ death every 
stroke I took in that sea, I’d jump at the chance to make the 
change. But I wasn’t built for it, hadn’t the body or the 
strength, an’ I couldn’thave lived for half the distance. 

Sometimes I could catch sight of Bill as he come up to the 
top of the big rollers for breath; he could go through ’em just 


39 


as easy as if he was playin’ with ’em but it wasn’t no play, I 
can tell you. He could dive through the highest wave an’ 
come out on the other side, that was easy enough for a strong 
swimmer like Bill, but as he got to the other side another big 
wave would meet him, so they kept cornin’ at him, an’ he didn’t 
git no chance to breathe except when he rose up through the 
waves an’ that was hard work. 

But, oh, how close I watched, scared ’most to death, an’ how 
I felt. I never was in any place where the chances of livin’ 
was measured by minutes, but I’ve heard ’em that has been 
tell how long a minute seemed to ’em when they was waitin’ 
hours an’ hours they said. The time I was watehin’ Bill didn’t 
seem so long as that, but it was long enough ; I never want to 
feel as bad as I did then, an’ I don’t believe I ever will. The 
native men didn’t comfort me much ; they was watehin’ close, 
too, an’ kept sayin,’ he never could do it, hollerin’ out : “Now 
he’s gone,” every time he was out of sight an’ sayin’ no man 
had wind enough to do what he was a-tryin’. 

At last he got to where the water was a good deal smoother. 
We could see him, just a blot on the waves, risin’ an’ failin’ 
on ’em. Then the men said his strength had give out an’ he 
couldn’t git through. It did look so. Bill was an awful rapid 
swimmer, now he was swimmin’ very very slow, but he knew 
just what he was doin’. I talked with him about it afterwards. 


40 


he was only savin’ his strength an restin’ as much as he could, 
and, for all they said an’ for all I feared, though he swum 
slow, he swum right along as if he hadn’t had no struggle, an’ 
I just got up an’ yelled when I see him climb up on the boat 
an’ wave his hand to me. 

He turned her head away from the shore, I could see him 
well enough then, the boat had got so near, an’ he looked to 
be everywhere at once, here with an oar, there a-shiftin’ the 
sails. — Such work I never see before an’ I never see since, an’ 
not a soul aboard helped him as I could make out ; but at last, 
all by himself, he shot that boat right otf to sea ; an’ I knowed 
then he would bring her safe to the bay. The work was all 
done ; I stopped cryin’ an’ began to laugh an’ the natives, men 
an’ women, laughed, too, an’ clapped their hands an’ called 
out in their own language, ‘^Well done,” or "Pretty good,” or 
somethin’ like it. 

I got a couple of girls to carry somethin’ to eat, the men 
would have felt insulted if I had asked them, an’ I took what 
I could myself, an’ we run all the way over to the bay, but 
there wasn’t no boat in sight an’ it was a good while afore we 
see anythin’ of her. At last she showed, but she was a long 
way out ; that was nothin’ she would git in in time an’ in time 
she come. Bill called to me an’ the girls to come into the 
water an’ pull her in. One of the girls took the rope an’ me 


41 


an’ the other went to the stern where the water was up to our 
chins, an’ we run the boat in an’ made her fast. Bill was 
pretty well done for. He motioned me to come aboard an’ 
there they all was, a dead man in sailor’s cloths an’ two more 
dressed the same way that was pretty near dead. Then a dead 
boy an’ then a girl, awfully pretty but thin, oh, so thin, she 
might have been dead, too, an’ a well-dressed man who looked 
pretty wild in the eyes, though he had stood it better than any 
of ’em. It was easy enough to see why they hadn’t managed 
the boat, they couldn’t ; hadn’t the strength to do it, an’ if Bill 
hadn’t gone out she’d have gone on the rocks an’ all in her 
been lost. They had some little provisions left in the boat, 
their trouble had been want of water; it was from that the 
sailor an’ the boy had died an’ the rest would have follered 
soon enough if they hadn’t struck the island. Bill handed me 
a dipper. I knew what that meant an’ was off to the spring 
in three jumps. It did me good, though, to see the signs of 
civilized life again, an’ I couldn’t keep my eyes off the dipper. 

First Bill give the girl a little water on the tips of his fingers 
an’ when he thought she’d got enough, he give the man a 
swaller or two. He says in a faint voice : “Mercy,” or some- 
thin’ like that, an’ I says : “Bill, he thinks we are cannibals, 
seein’ as how we are naked.” Then Bill looked toward the girl 
an’ he says : “Hank, it is awful to have to go around this way 
in the company of a pretty, civilized white girl; we must do 


42 


somethin’ to partly dress ourselves.” By this time he had 
given some water to the sailor men, an’ he says to me : “Let’s 
take the bodies ashore. It’s hard for the livin,’ run down an’ 
feeble as they be, to have ’em before their eyes.” 

So we drew the body of the sailor up on the sand ; but when 
we come to move the body of the boy, the man motioned to us 
to stop, an’ said somethin’ in a language we couldn’t under- 
stand, but we knew what his motions meant well enough. Then 
Bill he tried to talk with him by signs, an’ it come out out that 
the man could speak a little English after all. An’ mixin’ up 
his French, for it was French he talked, with what little Eng- 
lish he could think of, he let us know that the boy, sixteen 
years old, was his son an’ the girl, four years older, was his 
daughter. Filly, he called her. Bill showed him, as well as 
he could, that the boat wasn’t no place for the dead body, while 
the livin’ folks was in it, an’ at last, he let us move the boy. 

By this time a good many of the natives had come to the 
bay an’, as usual, they made for the clothes both of the livin’ 
an’ the dead. Then Bill stood right up to ’em an’ I could see 
what a hold he had got on ’em ; he got one of their clubs an’ he 
hit every man or woman a-tryin’ to thieve. They was all 
afraid of him, a little superstitious, I guess, seein’ how he had 
gone through the water to the boat unhurt, an’ Bill went fur- 
ther than that, too, for he made ’em get tree branches an’ build 
up a place to put the folks in from the boat. 


43 


We buried the bodies, tellin’ the man what we was goin’ to 
do, an’ he made no objections; but before we buried ’em Bill 
says to me : “It we was at home, we’d think it was pretty hard 
to have to wear dead folk’s clothes ; but what can we do ? We 
can’t show ourselves, as we are, when that girl’s around. I 
didn’t have time to think of it when I was on the boat an’ 
now the excitement is over, well I won’t go where she is, any 
more than I can help, till I get somethin’ on, an’ I don’t sup- 
pose you will either but we’ve got to see her an’ wait on her. 
We’ll take the clothes off of these bodies an’ give ’em a good 
washin’. The man’s clothes is small for me an’ the hoy’s 
clothes too small for you, but we can git ’em on an’ fix our- 
selves to look decent.” And so we did. Then there was a big 
hubbub again among the natives. We was puttin’ on style an’ 
they didn’t like it, but Bill knew how to handle ’em now an’ he 
beat ’em out easy enough. It wasn’t like old times. 

Well, all the folks that was in the boat that was livin’ when 
she come ashore, got well. We stayed with them an’ alto- 
gether we made up a little village on the bay an’ little by little 
our new friends come to speak some English an’ we picked up 
some French. The two sailors was rough customers. Bad 
hard faces they had, an’ though they talked in their own lan- 
guage, that we couldn’t understand much of, we knew they 
was sayin’ rough things about the girl. One of ’em had just 


44 


come out of jail at Marseilles, when he first shipped an’ seemed 
rather proud of it. They used to go over among the natives 
some an’ in that way lost most of their clothes, but neither 
Monsieur Franchot, that was the gentleman’s name, or his 
daughter saw the islanders except as they come over to us an’ 
then we took care that they saw as little of ’em as we could. 
Monsieur had taken p; <sage home from the East Injees in the 
Jean Eousselle. She was wrecked in the typhoon that hit us, 
just about to go down when all aboard took to the boats. This 
boat got separated from the rest about fifteen days before she 
struck us. Six persons in her an ’very little water. The boat 
had been run in the hope of strikin’ some of the islands; but 
the men give out for want of water, the second mate dyin’ two 
days before we see her. Monsieur lived in the West Injees, had 
gone to France with his sick wife then round the Cape of Good 
Hope; his wife died, he started back the other way with his 
two children, was wrecked an’ glad to find shelter on a savage 
island. ' 

It was a kind of new life to us havin’ civilized folks about 
us, but pretty soon there was trouble enough on our hands. 
The natives got awfully jealous an’ especially the girls. Bill 
an’ me talked it over an’ agreed that we would go over pretty 
often an’ swim with ’em an’ act as if nothin’ had happened; 
but we had clothes now, if we left ’em anywhere they would 


45 


be stole an’ tore up. So one of us had to watch the clothes 
while the other one went into the water, takin’ turns, an’ in 
that way we got things quieted down pretty well. 

The French girl was pretty ; such eyes I never see in a wo- 
man’s head. But her looks wasn’t all; it was her ways; they 
took right hold of me. Before she could speak English she 
would look at me so grateful for every little thing I done for 
her; an’ then I found that Merci, in her language, meant, 
thank you, or somethin’ of that kind; when she said it the 
sweetest smile would come on her face; I can see it all no\v. 
She sung an’ her father sung, too, an’ when we had picked up 
the tunes they made me an’ Bill sing with ’em. Our voices 
wasn’t so bad, ’specially Bill’s, but I guess the nearest we come 
to singin’ in tune was to put the others out of it. We thought 
so ourselves an’, though the sailors turned their backs, I could 
see ’em grinin’ to each other. Bill had saved their lives that 
was plain enough to ’em but they hadn’t no gratitude; didn’t 
know enough to be grateful, anyhow. 

I begun to have a queer feelin’ about that girl ; it wasn’t my 
fault neither. It just come on me an’ I couldn’t help it, an’ it 
wasn’t the fault of anybody, or anything, but her own hand- 
some face an’ her own good, gentle an’ affectionate ways. 

I didn’t tell Bill, of course, what ailed me because I didn’t 
know it myself ; if I had I guess I would have run to him right 


46 


off to tell him how I felt, but I knew afterwards, when 1 
couldn’t talk to anybody, that I was dead gone about her. 

I kept thinkin’ of her all the time. It worked queer in my 
mind, too ; I didn’t think of marryin’ her, I hadn’t got so fur 
as that. It was a kind of an all-over feelin’ just as if she was 
somethin’ too great fur me to think about. So I kept on in 
that way, thinkin’ of her all the time an’ I don’t believe a soul 
but me knew it. Bill didn’t see it. Monsieur didn’t see it; 
whether Madamoiselle saw it or not I don’t know. She didn’t 
show that she did ; she was awful good to me, an’ I thought she 
liked me; she acted as if she did, that was all I knew an’ I 
hadn’t got so fur as to think why she acted so or how she felt 
to me ; an’ so everything she done, every word an’ every smile 
she give me, would come back to me over an’ over again, when 
I was away from her an’ I walked about with a dazed kind of 
feelin’, just thinkin’ about her all the time an’ nothin’ else. 

Bill was all this while dryin’ an’ saltin’ away all the fish an’ 
birds that he could git hold of that we didn’t eat, an’ hidin’ 
away everything else in the provision line that would keep, but 
he said nothin’ to nobody. I see it of course an’ waited for 
him to speak, but he didn’t, so one day I asked him right out 
what it meant. Of course I had just as soon ask him as not, 
we’d always said just what we’d lik’d to each other, but, as I 
thought he had ought to have told without askin’, I spoke a 


47 


little stiff an’ formal. I was standin’ close to him, an’ he took 
hold of my ear an’ give it a pull, laughin’ at me as he done it., 

“I ain’t quite ready to talk yet. Hank,” he says, “or wouldn’t 
be if you hadn’t made me. I’ve kept still for several reasons. 
In the first place, I don’t want them yeller dogs to know we 
are goin’ to run away from ’em. I ain’t afraid of the whole 
crowd if they come out open, but they might smash the boat 
or do somethin’ like that, so I have so fur made it a secret. 
You know one can keep a secret safe enough ; how many more 
will keep it, we don’t know ; that don’t mean you, you’re true 
stuff, but that yeller girl that likes you so much, watchin’ you 
close might see you do somethin’ or hear you say somethin’ 
that she’d tell the crowd an’ set them all a boilin’; they’re a 
mighty sharp lot, you know that well enough. 

But that ain’t all of it, or so much of a reason as the danger 
of raisin’ false hopes. If we talk of this before we have any- 
thin’ done it might never come to much. Then everybody 
would feel worse than if we never had thought of it. Now I 
don’t think so much about myself au’ you don’t seem to be wor- 
ried much either, but it makes me ’most crazy to think of 
J osephine, livin’ here as she does. I would take any chance to 
get her out.” 

I knew in a minute from the look on his face what ha- 
meant. 


48 


I couldn’t answer him at once but when I could talk, I said 
pretty faint : 

“You’re sweet on her then ?” 

“Sweet on her, Hank? Why I love her, would give up my 
life for her, go to the end of the world for her. You don’t 

know how I feel, Hank, an’ I can’t tell you; but then ” 

he stopped an’ thought a minute. 

“I am a poor sailor boy ; she is a shipwrecked girl ; here we 
are equal. If, by God’s help, we get out of this strait, what? 
Her father is a rich man; he told me as much, givin’ out to 
me that he means to do a good deal for me; grateful enough 
to me now, an’ encouraging me all he can ; but will he be the 
same man when we get among civilized folks, if ever we do? 
I guess I’d go crazy if they turned on me then. I say they; 
I don’t believe Josephine would do it, but her father might 
make her,” an’ he seemed to be all excited an’ frightened at 
what he had made up himself. 

If Bill had walked up to me without say in’ a word an’ 
knocked me down, an’ kicked me an’ thrown me into the surf 
to drown, he wouldn’t have hit me harder. He didn’t see I 
was hit, for I never showed much what I felt, an’ I kept 
mighty cool now, an’ besides he was so took up with the idea 
of gettin’ away an’ with thinkin’ about that girl just as I was. 


49 


that he couldn’t think of anything else or see what was goin’ 
on before him. Bill, as I told you, wasn’t a feller that studied 
about other folks much. He could start a thing himself well 
enough, but he didn’t take much pains to find out what them 
about him was thinkin’ of or whether their notions was good 
or bad. 

“Well, Bill,” I says, just as quiet an’ cool as I’m talkin’ to 
you now, “since we’ve gone so fur let’s have the rest of it. 
Don’t you fear, I won’t blab. Them girls don’t git half as 
much out of me as you think ; an’ besides you’ve been sweet on 
a lot of ’em yourself ; they may pump you.” He laughed. 

“I understand. Hank,” he said, ‘fiDut this is an awful time 
with us, ^it’s neck or nothin’, first to get away from here ; then 
to go, God knows where, there’s danger all round, but I know 
you’ll stand by me.” “Hain’t I always stood by you. Bill?” 
I says. 

“Yes, yes, but this is somethin’ new, a new conditon of 
affairs. I ain’t so reckless as I used to be. I have got some- 
thin’ to live for now; it makes me feel selfish and I don’t 
want to die just 3'^et, by drowning at any rate. I’ll get you all 
away safe an’ sound. I got you in a scrape once and you may 
not have as much confidence in me as if I hadn’t done it; but 
I’ve thought it all over and we stand an even chance to get 


50 


out alive. Your as good as any three men, always doin’ the 
best, takin’ what comes to you an’ never complainin’, or makin’ 
anybody about you uncomfortable, an’, though you may not 
see it, I’ve learned a lot since we got left here. I am a good 
deal more of a man than I was when we first come. Havin’ to 
work these cusses here has made me think. I’m older too, at 
any rate I’ve done with takin’ chances an’ gettin’ into scrapes 
just to show somebody how smart I be.” 

Then he told me that when he was ready for it he meant to 
put us all on the boat and take the chances of escaping. With 
a compass that the dead mate had used he thought he could 
find his way an’ keep a pretty good notion of where he was 
runnin’. He would keep goin’ on until he fell in with a ship, 
or come to some place where ships was likely to call. If water 
or provisions run low, there was islands on the way that we 
was goin’ ; we could git in somewhere, provision an’ water, an’ 
go on; time wasn’t of no consequence; we could spend it on 
the boat, if we could keep afloat, just as we could here, an’ 
we would feel besides that we was all the time doin’ some- 
thin’ to get back to the world. He was goin’ to try to deck 
the boat over a little with some canvass he found in her; just 
a place to keep the provisions an’ for Josephine. He had 
gathered some big thorns an’ dried ’em an’ he could use ’em 
in the canvass about as well as if they was nails. 


51 


Well, a little after we had this talk, queer notions come 
into my head. Little by little the feelin’ got hold of me until 
I made up my mind that I would tell Bill, without givin’ 
much of any reason or lettin’ him get any out of me, that I 
would do what I could to help him get away so fur I would 
do my duty by all, but when IM done that I’d stay right 
where I was; maybe a ship would come along an’ pick me up 
some day, it didn’t matter much anyway, but I’d stay an’ he 
an’ the French folks, sailors an’ all, might try their luck in the 
boat an’ I made up my mind too, that no coaxin’ or whinin’ 
should make me change my mind or budge from the island 
with him. 

I wanted to think I was actin’ right, so I tried hard to 
make myself believe Bill hadn’t done just the right thing by 
me in not tollin’ me what he was up to about goin’ away, till 
I asked him. But that wouldn’t work; it was Bill’s way all 
over, an’ had been ever since we first run across each other 
an’ I had stood up for it against the whole ship’s crew. It 
was the way he done to everybody so I dropped that out pretty 
quick. Then I tried to think of somethin’ he had done to me, 
however little it might be, but I couldn’t. He had got me into 
a scrape, of course, but he’d got himself in just as bad, an’ 
he’d have got me out if he could. I kept just as fur away 
from thinkin’ about the real thing that was makin’ me act 


52 


so, as I could. Somehow the notion had got into my head 
that this feelin’ was a new thing with Bill, that he hadn’t 
thought of it till a good while after I had; but I knew well 
enough it wasn’t so. If I hadn’t been an infernal fool, an’ 
had kept my eyes open, I’d have seen just what had been goin’ 
on from the start an’ got used to it. Bill wouldn’t speak of 
it to me, never would, I might have known that, an’ it only 
just come out when I talked to him an’ made him talk. I see 
it all plain enough after I had had the talk with him an’ I 
kept out of the girl’s way as much as I could after that, but it 
kept turnin’ over in my mind day an’ night that I couldn’t go 
away with ’em. 

I used to lie awake at night with a gnawin’ feelin’ that 
wouldn’t let me sleep an’ do what I could I couldn’t think of 
anything else but this. There I’d lie an’ go over to myself 
the talks I would have with BiU when he come for me to go 
on the boat, what I’d say an’ just how I’d say it so he never 
would think that what I was doin’ was anythin’ more than 
usin’ my best judgment against his, an’ maybe he’d think I 
hadn’t much confidence in his judgment; he might think that 
an’ welcome, think anythin’, so long as he didn’t mix the 
French girl up with it. How I felt about her he or she 
mustn’t know, an’ Bill mustn’t think it neither; if he dared 
to I’d make him lots of trouble. 


53 


So after makin’ myself pretty near Sown sick, I settled 
good an’ strong on what I would do an’ on what I would say, 
an’ waited for Bill to let me know the time he was ready to 
go. Then I had it all fixed for him; just the number of 
words an’ no more. 

A month, perhaps, after this talk. Bill told Monsieur, he 
had come to believe in Bill by this time so we all three sot 
down to talk it over, clear as we could, not understandin’ each 
others language over well. Bill talked so hopeful that I began 
to believe he might get through, but I didn’t take any interest 
in what he was sayin’ an’, if he had been watchin’ close or 
caught quick, he’d have seen it, but he talked right along as if 
I felt just as he did. I took good care to let him do all the 
talkin’ an’ I kept my face turned away from him, though I 
don’t believe he’d a got much out of it or known what 1 was 
thinkin’ about if I’d looked right at him all the time; but I 
might break down when he appealed to me or say somethin’ to 
make him guess I was put out; then he’d be tryin’ to find 
out what it was an’ we’d a all been uncomfortable for the rest 
of the time we stayed together; so lookin’ away I hardly 
spoke. Monsieur wasn’t to tell the sailors what was goin' 
on until just as we got ready to start, but they overheard him 
talkin’ to his daughter, got hold of it right off, an’ came near 
doin’ a lot of mischief. 


54 


One day I was in the surf when a girl come up to me an’ 
puttin’ her arm about my neck, as if she wanted me to swim 
with her, she whispers in my ear that she wants to tell me 
somethin’. I made as if I was challengin’ her to a race, an’ 
she took after me as hard as she could. When we got pretty 
well away from the rest she told me that the sailors had been 
lettin’ the islanders know by signs or somehow, that we was 
all goin’ to run away in the boat an’ she asked me not to go. 
The sailors, she said, didn’t want to go but her folks didn’t 
like the sailors an’ didn’t want ’em; they wanted Bill an’ me. 
So some night, when all the folks at the bay was asleep, they 
was acomin’ to kill everybody but Bill an’ me, smash the boat, 
an’ bring us back to the settlement. She said she would let me 
know beforehand of the night they was cornin’ an’ I could 
run away an’ come over to her. 

There was only one thing for me to do now, tell Bill right 
off, an’ tell him, too, that if he was goin’ he must go quick 
an’ then the question would come up about my goin’; he 
wouldn’t ask me, he’d just think I was goin’ anyway. I knew 
he would try to get away as fast as he could an’ I knew too, 
he might have a big fight on his hands before he could git 
away to keep his boat from bein’ smashed. 

I hadn’t much time to think there in the water but things 
run through my head pretty fast, an’ I tried to make out how. 


55 


in all this trouble an’ danger to him, I could look Bill square 
in the face an’ tell him I wasn’t goin’ to stand b}' him. All 
the things I had made up so careful to say wasn’t of any use 
now. It was just the question whether I would go or not. 
Then I thought of Bill an’ how I had felt about him. I 
thought of the girl an’ how I felt about her. If it had all 
been plain sailin’, they goin’ on a big ship from one place to 
another, sure to land, no sufferin’ or danger about it, I would- 
n’t have stopped a minute, I’d just stuck it out, told ’em to go 
’an me stay on the island, an’ I suppose get as low down as 
the rest of ’em that stayed there, but thinkin’ quick as I did, 
the whole picture come before me. There was Bill away out 
at sea, dyin’ perhaps for want of my help. There was the 
sailors, poor sticks anyhow, but worse, they might take it into 
their heads to kill Bill and Monsieur when they was asleep, 
for they would have the watch part of the time if I wasn’t 
along, I didn’t go no further in that direction to think what 
might happen to the girl. But I had thought enough; they 
was all riskin’ their lives to get away from this hole of an 
island. They all believed in me. They needed my help an’ 
was I to let ’em go out, to die, perhaps, for want of it an’ play 
hog myself because my feelin’s had been hurt pretty bad ? If 
I kept up that way of thinkin’ I’d go crazy as soon as the boat 
had left without me. I dove under an’ when I come up, all 
the bad notions was gone out of my head. I had made up 


56 


my mind to go along an’ never say a word to any on ’em, an’ 
I never did, about how I felt or how I had laid awake night 
after night broodin’ over it in my mind, or that I didn’t mean 
to go with ’em at one time. I felt a good deal better then an’ 
kept a feelin’ better as time went on. 

After Bill had had his swim I told him what I had heard, 
an^ that he must move quick ; he nodded an’ looked hard at me 
though he didn’t make any answer ; as soon as we got back to 
the bay he began to pack up, awful quiet though, an’ he did it 
too just at the time when the sailors wasn’t ’round; then he 
showed me how he’d been arrangin’ about the water. Be- 
tween what they had on the boat for storin’ it an’ the cocoanut 
shells he could get together, there was water enough to last 
six for three or four months, but it turned out there was only 
four of us after all. We watched nights, by turns, to see that 
there wasn’t no mischief goin’ on but it wasn’t three days 
after I told Bill what I had heard, when he says, “We’re ofE 
today. A fair wind, a quiet sea; as well stocked as we ever 
will be; all aboard.” Then the sailors looked sulky; they 
wasn’t ready to go. They wanted to say good-bye to the 
natives. Two days later wouldn’t make any difference. It 
was a crazy voyage anyway an’ they didn’t believe in it. Bill 
told Monsieur to say to these men that they must make up 
their minds within twenty minutes or they would be left be- 


•57 


hind, but, after sulkin’ for a little while, they started off for 
the island settlement. This was enough. We all got aboard 
and away we went a leavin’ ’em behind. 

All the work of watchin’ and runnin’ the boat fell on Bill 
an’ me. Monsieur wasn’t good for anything an’, as for his 
daughter, I guess Bill would have gone crazy if she’d have 
spoke of doin’ anything. I felt the same way, but didn’t show 
it, but Bill wouldn’t eat or drink till she had eat and drunk. 

He waited on her like a slave, did all for her that she’d let 
him ; but she wouldn’t let him do much. 

I didn’t pay very much attention to what was goin’ on 
among the folks in the boat, but I couldn’t help seein’ that the 
girl was as much set on Bill as he was on her, an’ that Mon- 
sieur thought the sun rose an’ set on Bill too. Both the 
Frenchmen an’ the girl was awful sweet to me but Bill was 
everybody with ’em. I saw enough to take away any fear that 
Bill would get left then, an’, after all he had done, I almost 
made myself believe I was glad to see it. 

It made me feel a little lonesome an’ downhearted but I 
didn’t git mad or git the sulks again, I gave all that up when 
we started out an’ I acted all the time we was afloat in that 
lonesome old craft as cheerful an’ light hearted as if I really 
felt that way an’ meant it. There was so much to do tendin’ 


58 


to the boat that I hadn^t time to think a great deal about what 
was goin’ on, an’ when it come Bill’s watch I was so done up 
that I couldn’t do anythin’, nothin’ but go right to sleep. 

No gnawin’ feelin’ now. 

Me an’ Bill pulled mighty well together. I believe, as Bill 
said, we two was equal to half a dozen first-class men an’ I 
believe, too, that if Bill had had only the French sailors in 
my place, good for nothin’ as they was, his boat would have 
been swamped over and over again. He said I had saved ’em 
all a number of times, an’ he didn’t say it to me, he said it 
right out to all of us, an’ he put his hand on my shoulder as 
he done it. I suppose any good sailor could have done just 
as much, but I don’t know whether they’d have had the feelin’ 
to do it or not; love of life, won’t always make a man put in 
his best licks. If you leave his judgment an’ feelin’s out 
an’ throw him right back on his natural instinct, I guess he’ll 
struggle all he can, ’specially a feller that’s tenacious an’ 
thinks a good deal of livin’, but let him have the whole thing 
before him, with all his human feelin’s at work, an’ pretty 
much everybody will say that there are things that will make 
a man work harder than the thought of savin’ his life alone. 

I was just in this shape; I didn’t care whether I lived or died, * 
dyin’ perhaps had the heaviest end of it, but I wanted the 
rest to git out so, when things was at their worst (an’ they 


59 


looked pretty bad sometime an’ kept us goin’ pretty steady 
without any sleep), I kept thinkin’ I must hold out till they 
got better for the sake of them aboard feelin’ a little proud 
perhaps to show ’em what I could do. 

We was out about forty-six days when a whalin’ vessel from 
New London on her way home picked us up. 

Well, now, if you was to end up my story for me, I suppose 
you would say that when we all got back to this country the 
French folks shook Bill off an’ that he shot himself or drowned 
himself or went crazy over the way they treated him, as I 
guess he would if your endin’ of it was right. That’s mostly 
the way rich folks in this world uses us poor folks an’ it 
would be very natural for you to say it ended in that way, but 
if you said so I should say, NO, it didn’t, the thing that we 
all agree was most likely didn’t happen here. Monsieur 
knowed Bill pretty well by the time we got to this country 
an’ he called Bill an’ me to him, the girl bein’ by, an’ he says 
to Bill : 

‘T have lost a son but I have gained another. You will 
be more to me than my daughter’s husband, you will take my 
son’s place too.” 

Bill didn’t say much, I don’t believe he could, but he looked 
at him pretty hard an’ then he looked at the girl. That was 


60 


■enough, they couldn’t have understood him better if he had 
have talked to ’em in the best language for an hour. 

Then Monsieur an’ the girl come right after me. I don’t 
know whether Bill had told ’em, without talkin’ with me, 
what I would do or not but they asked how long I wanted to 
stay at home for a visit an’ just how soon I could come an’ 
live with them. I thanked ’em, but shook my head, say in’ 
I was goin’ home to live with my own folks. I didn’t see any 
reason why I should go with them or anybody else. All the 
credit of gettin’ out of the scrape we was in, belonged to 
Bill anyway; I hadn’t had much to do with it. Bill didn’t 
say so or make as if he thought it, but I knew it just the 
same. Monsieur an’ the girl was a good deal surprised at first, 
at the way I took their invitation but then they began talkin’ 
with me, sayin’ what Monsieur would do for me an’ makin’ a 
good many handsome offers. I said no, to everything, an’ I 
said it in a pretty stiff way, too, as if I meant it. All the 
time Bill looked mighty sober, an’ awfully cut up when he 
heard the answers I give to Monsieur an’ his daughter. 

“Hank,” he says, “I don’t know as I have any right to talk 
here on the part of our friends, but you know as well as I 
do that they mean what they say an’ that you would be almost 
doin’ ’em a favor to go with ’em, an’ take what they offer; an’ 
I tell you as your friend, that it’ll be the makin’ of you if you 


61 


do. But there’s another way of lookin’ at it, about which I 
feel I’ve got a right to speak. We have been through so much, 
suffered so much together, an’ come out so well, that it seems 
to me we belong to each other an’ ought to keep together. You 
know I belong to these folks now. It seems like breakin’ up 
a family to hear you talk of not goin’.” 

His eyes twitched for a minute an’ then he went on. 

^‘You may not have any feelin’ at leavin’ me. Hank, though 
I hope it ain’t so bad as that, but whether you have or not, 
I have a good deal about lettin’ you go. It makes me almost 
sick to think of it.” 

I looked the other way, for a few minutes; I couldn’t look 
at Bill at all, but I had made up my mind. There wasn’t 
no danger to any of ’em now. They’d all got home or pretty 
near it, so I held out. I said to Bill what I had told Mon- 
sieur an’ his daughter, that nobody could do anything for me 
then. I had made up my .mind to stick to my callin’ an’ so 
we’d have to part ; I told Bill how much I thought of him an’ 
always should but that we’d all got to make our way in the 
world an’ with that I pretended to laugh it off, though as I 
felt I could have a good deal better laid right down an’ cried 
an’ bawled. So we said good-bye all ’round an’ they toted 
Bill off to the West Ingies an’ I never seen him again. 


62 


My folhs had heard I was dead. The story brought home 
was that Bill an’ me had deserted an’ been killed an’ eat by 
cannibals; but everybody was glad enough to see me an’ to 
git me back an’ that was better than goin’ to live with them 
French folks. 

Here Long stopped, but one of his cronies sitting by nudged 
him. 

“That ain’t all your story, Hank. Barton never went back 
on you, for all the way you acted. This man will think he 
did if you don’t tell him the rest.” 

“The rest, what do you mean by the rest?” 

“Why how he acted after that. He’ll think he acted mean ; 
forgot all about you.” 

I 

“I hain’t said nothin’, as I know of, to make him think 
so; there ain’t a mean hair in Bill Barton’s head, an’ never 
was.” . 

“I think you said you never heard of him again,” I sug- 
gested. 

“No sir-ee. I didn’t say nothin’ of the kind or intimate it 
either. I said I never see him again. After a while he wrote 
me from the West Injees, sayin’ how sorry he was that I didn’t 
come along and how much he missed me. Tellin’ how well 


63 


he was treated an’ that he was married an’ how happy he an’ 
his wife was, an’ sendin’ me a whole lot of money from Mon- 
sieur. I was just goin’ on another voyage then, an’ that let- 
ter, I don’t know why, upset me so that I was down sick, an’ 
like to be laid up for a good while. I was glad to hear from 
Bill, glad to hear how well he was doin’ an’ that he was happy, 
but somehow it made me sick all the same, an’ it looked for a 
while as if I’d have to stay at home. But the ship was like to 
be short handed an’ waited for me until I was well enough to 
go. Before I went away I thought over all about the money 
Bill had sent me. I didn’t feel like keepin’ it an’ I couldn’t 
send it back; so out of it I payed the doctor an’ some debts 
I owed an’ divided the rest in my family. I couldn’t answer 
Bill’s letter an’ I never did. 

I was away off an’ on a good many year. When I was thirty 
year old I got married an’ we had some children, but my wife 
an’ all the children died, only one girl. She married a feller 
here that keeps a meat market an’ I’m livin’ with ’em. 

I’d been home livin’ here for a number of year, when one 
day a letter come from France over to Nantucket askin’ about 
me. That letter was from Bill. The Nantucket folks knew 
I was here an’ sent the letter over to me. At first I thought I 
wouldn’t write, but as Bill had took all this trouble to look 
me up, I sot down an’ wrote him where I was an’ how I was. 


64 


Then right off come another letter with two thousand francs 
inside, askin’ me to come over to France an’ see him. If I 
wouldn’t, or couldn’t come, I was to keep the money ; he would 
send me just the same every year, an’ more if I needed it, an’ 
so he has. He had got to be a big merchant an’ a rich man, 
no associate for such a poor devil as me ; that’s what I thought 
but he didn’t seem to think so. He had an aunt or some 
relation livin’ over here when we went out together but she 
died while he was away on the first voyage, so I suppose he 
won’t never come here again. After all Bill is a good feller, 
but as I say, I ain’t no associate for him, he a rich man, 
an’ me — a poor broken down old sailor. 

And without another word he walked out. 

“We’ve heard some of this story before, but not so much of 
it.” One of the men said. ‘‘He’s very proud of Monsieur 
Barton, as he calls him, but he won’t own it. Barton has 
tried to get him to France, tried to do a lot for him, but the 
most that Hank will let him do is to take the money he sends 
him. He kicked at that at first, but he was ashamed to send 
it back and now he takes it when it comes.” 

“And he really has an affection still for his old comrade ?” 
I asked. 

“Affection? Brothers ain’t in it; daughters and grand- 
children ain’t nowhere. Only one thing keeps him from 


65 


ownin’ up that he thinks more of him than anybody in the 
world, only one thing the matter, Barton is rich, an’ Hank, is 
poor.” 


66 















A Wall Street Incident. 



A Wall Street Incident, 


I. 

On the twenty-sixth day of July, 1893, about four o’clock 
in the afternoon, two men were seated in the private office of 
Smith, Morrison & Co., Bankers and Brokers, Broad Street, 
in the City of New York, engaged in earnest conversation, 
A storm was gathering in the sky, threatening every moment 
to burst, and darkness, almost of night, had settled upon the 
city; but they did not seem to be aware of it, so intent were 
they upon the subject under discussion. 

A financial storm, that earlier in the day had passed over 
the street, had so shocked those who had been hit, that they 
were quite indifferent to any unusual disturbance of the at- 
mosphere. The condition in the Stock Exchange had been 
fearful. One stock alone had fallen seventy points and, though 
the depreciation in other securities had not been as great, it 
had been great enough to carry ruin and bankruptcy to many 
who were engaged in business of a speculative character. Loans 


71 


for trifling amounts could not be had even upon securities of 
the highest class. 

One of the men, older than the other by a number of years, 
was at first quite imperative in his manner. The other, while 
he had reached man’s estate, looked young. Quiet in his 
manners, and hardly opening his thin lips as he gave utterance 
to his words, he yet spoke with dignity and firmness. He 
was a tall, strong, well-built young fellow, with a handsome, 
and ordinarily rather good natured face, but now, it bore a 
look of distress, perhaps a look of terror also. 

“I say to you, Fred,” the elder man said, “it must be done. 
The market can’t help changing for the better; you must put 
up this ten thousand additional; whether you like it or not; 
I say it must be done.” 

‘‘And I say to you, Eobert, that I will not do it. You have 
been kind to me, advanced me — perhaps more than I deserved, 
been my friend from the time when I came here, four years 
ago, a boy of twenty, and you have given me a good character 
to those whose opinions would be of value to me, never refused 
me leave to come and go as I liked, but in what situation have 
you placed me now ?” 

“A year ago you came to me, with three thousand dollars; 
you did not ask, but directed me to open an account with Wal- 
tham Brothers for the purchase of stocks, open it in my name, 


72 


but for you and you alone, because you said, you expected to 
get a partnership here and did not wish to appear to be spec- 
ulating. I hesitated, as you know. I had saved a little money 
and, after saving a little more, hoped to be able to get mar- 
ried and I said so to you. You urged that there was no dan- 
ger; that you would keep the margin good and take up the 
account any moment I said so. This cursed panic came upon 
us, I advised you to sell out and stand your loss, but you were 
infatuated. You, a man of more than ten years’ experience 
in the street, would not listen to the advice of a boy, even 
though that boy was in distress and feared ruin to himself 
as the consequence of holding on. I must have a little nerve 
and see you through ; your answer to my entreaties was, ‘Fred, 
hold out a few days more, and I will make it all right,’ and 
so I was put off until a big debt was piled up against me at 
Walthams. You raised what money you could, I gave up my 
savings, but all sank out of sight in a day ; you took two thou- 
sand dollars of bonds belonging to this firm and gave them to 
me to put up as additional margin, and this has been re- 
peated until eight thousand dollars has been taken. I know 
we are both equally guilty, but I know, too, that this is not 
my affair at all and that I would never have handled one of 
those bonds, if you had not solemnly pledged to me your 
word that you would redeem them the moment I called upon 
you. I have called upon you, and you say that you can do 


73 


nothing more. You ask me to add to the wrong I have done 
by taking ten thousand dollars more of these people’s property. 
I will go no further, Eobert, that is my answer.” 

‘‘A fine time,” the other replied, ‘^to ask me to pay twelve 
thousand dollars. You Imow, as well as I, that no money can 
be had from the banks ; that we are hardly able to get checks 
cashed where we keep accounts; yet you stand up here, and 
like a sentimental school girl, ask me to do something that you 
know is impossible, and when I say that I cannot you invite 
ruin to us both. There is but one way; will you take those 
securities to Waltham Brothers, or will you not?” 

‘T will not. Take them yourself, if you want to, though I 
advise you not to do it. Why have you insisted, for the last 
few months that I had complete custody of the securities here ? 
You know they are in your charge and that I am your 
assistant.” 

The other unbent at once. 

“Don’t let us quarrel, Fred, whatever we do. We are both 
in a bad scrape and must try to look ahead a little. I believe 
that one more effort would pull us out, not bring back the 
twenty-five thousand dollars that we have lost, but let us out 
on the securities of the firm that we have pledged. You won’t 
act on my advice and it leaves us in devilish bad shape. What 
do you intend to do when Waltham’s sell? This office will 
recognize the bonds at once.” 


74 


“That is a question for you to answer. You have brought 
me into all this trouble; get me out of it. Your father is the 
real head here, devoted to you and your wife and child, if you 
tell him the truth he will not let us suffer. I will tell him 
if you say so.” 

“And bring about what we most fear, exposure, disgrace, 
punishment. I tell you, Fred, this firm cannot protect any 
one; it is insolvent, thaFs the plain truth, and we are both 
in danger of State’s prison.” 

“So you believe that Mr. Morrison could not raise twelve 
thousand dollars to take up those bonds, or at least let them 
go and say that they were pledged with his approval ?” 

“I know that he could not; those behind him would not 
allow it, even to protect me. He has already strained every 
nerve to get through; these securities do not belong to him, 
they are a part of a reserve fund, and in his present condition 
he has no one to appeal to. What do you say now ?” 

“Exactly what I said before; that I will not add to the 
wrong I have done. It may be that what is done, cannot be 
undone, but I will not commit a new crime. You may act 
upon that assurance.” 

“Very good. I got you into this trouble and I must do the 
best I can to protect you. We cannot go to prison. Have 
you no one to whom you can apply for the money needed ?” 


75 


“No one to whom I will apply; about that I am quite as 
decided. The law may take me, if I cannot escape, but I will 
not, to shield myself, involve my friends. You may act upon 
that also.” 

“Then we must both leave the country. You go first; I 
will stay for a few days and watch, then go in another 
direction.” 

“But I cannot leave this country. You know how I am 
situated ; know of my engagement to Margaret Eandolph. It 
would ruin me; it would kill her. Oh, Robert, Robert, is 
there not some way by which this can be avoided. I will 
pledge my work for years, bind myself as a slave almost, but I 
cannot break up my associations here; it would break my 
heart to do it. There must be some way out of it.” 

“It ought to be as plain to you as it is to me,” the other 
replied. “This panic has completely changed everything. We 
are all ruined and it is only a question of time when the 
public know it. For myself I see but one course, I must leave 
this country. You may remain, tell your own story; morally 
your friends may not think so ill of you, but criminally you 
will be punished, depend upon that; there is a good deal of 
feeling about this kind of business, anyway, and public senti- 
ment will be hard upon us both. You can save all this by 
putting up these bonds.” 


76 


“If I must go, Robert, I will, but I will not take the bonds, 
and I will never go to prison; I will shoot myself sooner. You 
know iny decision. Did you see that flash of lightning ? What 
a furious storm !” 

“Don’t talk to me of storms ; you and I are out in a pretty 
bad storm ourselves and with very little to shelter us. It is 
useless to say to me that I got you into this trouble, you might 
as well talk to the table ; I did it, I know, and would help you 
out if I could, but I can’t help myself. The only question 
is which of us shall abscond first. Neither should leave a trail. 
We must both be lost to the world; disappear as if we had 
never been. I will go first, if you say so, but then discovery 
follows at once; you are apprehended and the thought that I 
am responsible for it will only add to my troubles. On the 
other hand you leave on your three weeks vacation; I will 
put Waltham’s off till that time then go myself when I know 
that you are out of danger.” 

The young man made no reply for some minutes. Then he 
said : “I have something over two hundred dollars ; my father 
will give me three hundred more if I ask him ; that much will 
not distress him at all, though he is not a man of means. I 
will begin my vacation the day after tomorrow at noon. You 
have a picture of me, give it back and I will destroy it; there 
are a few others in the hands of my friends, I think I can 


77 


get hold of them too. It is not the fear of detection, but the 
thought of my picture being paraded in the newspapers as 
that of a thief. It is idle for us to say more. My life is 
ruined and I go out a wanderer, heart broken, crushed; but 
I do not blame you; you could not see what was coming; I 
hope there may be better days for you. Well, the storm is over 
and the sun shines again, but not for me.” 

II. 

“I ask you again, what ails you ? You say you are not ill, 
but you are pale, deathly pale, your voice trembles and you 
are as unlike your old self as if you had just come from an- 
other world. I am tired of urging you to speak and getting 
the same answer that it is nothing; if you have anything to 
say to me, do, I beg, I entreat of you, let me hear it. You 
hesitate, go on, go on, Fred, if you love me, talk, speak out. 
Oh, speak, speak !” 

“I cannot tell the story; all I have strength to say is that 
I may be sent to prison if I stay here. Perhaps it is just but 
I cannot go there; there are but two ways of avoiding it, one 
'by leaving the country, the other, I will not name. I have 
chosen the first, and I come to you, dear Margaret, to release 
you from your promise to me, to ask you to forgive me, to 
say good-bye to me and to forget that I ever lived.” 


78 


“And this is all, Frederick Marvin, that you would say to 
me? ‘I must leave the country; I shall never return to you, 
good bye.’ In a moment we are to forget all that has gone 
before, the love we have shown, vowed to each other, in a 
moment to stifle all feeling, my love to be cast aside, treated 
as the affection of a child to any one who will take it by the 
hand. Have I ever shown any wavering in my affection, my 
love, devotion to you, that you think I can stand here and do 
as you wish? ’Tis breaking my heart, I cannot bear it; there 
must surely be some way by which you can stay. I will go to 
my father for help now ; you have not relied upon me in your 
distress as you should, but no matter for that, though I do not 
know the story I will ask him to see you ; with his experience 
and money, he may set you right again. Oh, dear boy, do 
trust in us !” 

‘“Trust in you ? I would trust everything in the world, my 
life even, with you. ’Tis not want of trust, dearest girl, it is 
in kindness to you that I say as little as I may. I have de- 
termined and nothing shall shake me in that determination 
that I will not involve others in my misfortunes ; I must pay 
the penalty of my folly. The crime is committed, I will not 
demean myself by saying that it was not intended, but I do 
say that being done there are but two ways of escape. Do not 

I 

talk much to me or I will break dowm. From my father and 
mother I can part, I shall not even tell them that I am going, 


79 


but this ig, is — horrible. Oh, my dear, dear girl, loved as you 
deserved, loved with all my soul and mind when I was worthy 
of you, do not urge anything, let me go in peace; do not be- 
tray me, for that will be the result of your applying to your 
father. In a few weeks all will be known; then you may tell 
him what you will, but not now ; if you have any love for me, 
not now.” 

‘‘I will go \vith you, I have some money at my com- 
mand, we can be married and go together. It will not lessen 
what I know to be your slender means ; whatever your fortune 
may be, I should and will share it with you.” 

He hesitated for a few minutes and then answered: “It 
cannot be; it would mean ruin to us both. Estrangement 
from your family ; the censure of everyone ; a criminal fleeing 
from the country and taking a wife to share his flight. It 
would add horror to horror, and lead to immediate identiflca- 
tion and pursuit. No, no; take the offer I have made, a re- 
lease from the engagement and feel free from the man so un- 
worthy of you. Forget, if you can, but at least forgive.” 

“Forgiveness,” she answered, implies an injury. You have 
not injured me, but as you have injured yourself. I know 
you, believe in you, always will believe in you, no matter what 
happens or what I may hear, and I say to you now, that I will 
not be released. I have promised to be your wife, and at 


80 


any time, now or hereafter, when you are ready to keep your 
promise, I will keep mine. If you go away, I will keep it 
when you return. If you go to prison, it shall be when you 
have expiated your offense. If you are ill it shall be when you 
are restored to health, but never, never, while you live, will I 
cancel the vow I have made to you, and the harder the world 
bears upon you the closer I will cling to you. You may assume 
indifference, try to be brief in what you say, but you cannot 
conceal your meaning from me. You are distressed, dis- 
tracted, not yourself, and I beg of you to let me summon to 
our council one wiser than ourselves. My father has always 
had my confidence; let him have yours.” 

“I cannot, Margaret. My resolution is taken, my promise 
to keep it given, the only doubt I have had was whether I 
could get over this parting. Let us talk of other things, as 
if this was only a wild dream ; meet tonight as we have always 
met, and I may leave you in a calmer frame of mind.” 


III. 

*‘I am surprised at what you say, Mr. Morrison. Either Mr. 
Marvin or myself will give our check for the loss you may 
have suffered from the abstraction of your bonds. You may 
have no objection to letting us know, the amount at least.” 


81 


“Not at all. Two days after Frederick absconded, there was 
a turn in the market and though slight it was continuous 
from that time forward. We took up the stolen securities this 
week at a loss to us of about eleven hundred dollars and at my 
son’s urgent request, have passed that amount to profit and 
loss.” 

“And as friends of Frederick Marvin, I repeat that we wish 
very much to make that loss good to you. Though your actions 
so far seem unusual, we assume that you can have no interest 
in pursuing him, and that if the loss is made good the trouble 
is ended. His conduct here, I understand, except in this in- 
stance was always correct. Had you any other cause of com- 
plaint.” 

Mr. Morrison reflected a moment, then turned to his son 
who was sitting beside him. 

“We might as well be frank with these people, Robert, and 
though you have cautioned me against talking, I can see no 
harm in stating our position.” His son made no reply and 
he went on. “I address myself to you, Mr. Marvin, as the 
father of this young man, though you have said nothing. 
You sir, sent your son to college at the age of sixteen, and he 
was graduated at twenty. It gave him, I think, some imma- 
ture views that he would have changed if he had graduated 
a little later.” 


82 


"‘He was a very bright boy,” Mr. Marvin replied, “and as 
soon as the)'^ would take him at college, I was advised by his 
teacher to send him. We had no idea then of what occupation 
he would follow when he graduated ; he had unusual taste for 
languages.” 

“He spoke and wrote three languages, German, French and 
Spanish,” Mr. Morrison continued. “He was a good man in 
figures too. As you may suppose he was valuable to us. 
Eobert was quite proud of him, and advanced him rapidly; 
he was enthusiastic, learned quickly, and seemed to take great 
interest in our business. We trusted him more than it was 
prudent to trust any man; my son Eobert has not ceased to 
blame himself; he feels that he was too confiding, but that 
cannot be helped now. He abused our confidence, as you 
know. My son and I have talked it over and we prefer to 
leave matters as they are. We do not think that either the 
interest of this young man or our own would be advanced by 
allowing him to return to Hew York, and in that view, do 
not propose to take from any one the money we have lost, 
for the principle is wrong, but, added to that, I have some 
feeling on account of my son. He is blamed by those asso- 
ciated with me for his carelessness in trusting this young man 
as he did, and it may seriously affect his prospects in this 
business. My son is an unusually competent business man, if 
I say it, who should not, and this has been a severe blow to 


83 


both of us. I am not prepared to say what action we would 
take if the offender was here, but I tell you, that neither 
Eobert nor myself are just now in a very forgiving state of 
mind. I believe I express your \’iews, Eobert, as well as my 
own ?” 

The young man bowed, but made no other reply. 

“My daughter,” Mr. Eandolph said, “is quite ill, and for 
her sake I would do almost anything, to set young Marvin 
right. I have always had faith in him; I say this as much 
for his father^s sake as to you, and I believe that there have 
been people behind him who are profiting by his absence.” 
Unconsciously, perhaps, he looked at Eobert Morrison, who 
arose and walked to the window. 

“But,” he continued, “I do not know who they are, and, in 
Fredrick’s absence, I cannot find out.” Here Eobert re- 
turned to his seat beside his father. “While I think that 
you are cruel and unreasonable, we will not urge this money 
upon you, nor will we take any measures to bring young 
Marvin within reach of your revenge, for under your state- 
ment it comes to that.” 

“Ho, no,” Mr. Morrison answered, “I did not mean that 
either my son or I had any revengeful feeling. We are dis- 
appointed, chagrined, and maybe injured, that is all, and we 


84 


would not, as we feel, be disposed to obstruct the law. I 
hope I make my position clear?” 

"Quite clear enough for both of us, and so we will bid 
you good day.” 


IV. 

Evening was approaching when a tired traveller unslung 
his handbag at an inn, in a little town of Brittany, and asked 
for lodgings for the night. The landlord looked at him sus- 
piciously; his accent showed that he was a foreigner, though 
he spoke the French language fluently enough; he might be 
an American and Monsieur the Landlord had particular rea- 
sons for not desiring to entertain American guests at that 
’time; but the traveller seemed determined to remain; he 
could put up with anything, sleep anywhere, and Monsieur 
concluded to make the best of it and give him good enter- 
tainment. 

The traveller, returning from the room assigned him, and 
loitering about the hotel porch, soon saw that the landlord 
was nervous and excited; he answered questions in as few 
words as possible, evidently wishing to avoid suggesting 
others. The servants, too, instructed by their master, re- 
fused to talk, but overcaution, brought about, what Mon- 


85 


sieur, the landlord, most feared, suspicion, and finally a de- 
termination on the part of the traveller to investigate, A 
gift of three francs opened the mouth of a waiter and un- 
](;avelled the mystery. An American had died in the house 
that morning, died by his own hand, taken a poisonous drug, 
and the body lay in a little room upstairs. 

The traveller sought an interview with the landlord at . 
once. 

“What is this I hear? A countryman of mine lies dead in 
the house and you say nothing to me of it? You must know 
that I am an American. Where are the public authorities? 
Wliat are the circumstances? WTiat name did the dead man 
give? As a countryman of his I have the right to know.” 
At first the landlord was sullen and uncommunicative. 

“Yes, a man died in my house this morning, but how should 
I know from what country he came or from what country 
Monsieur came either. I do not speak the English language 
nor do any of my people in the house.” 

“But this man told the chambermaid he was an American, 
it must have been repeated to you. I will apply to the auth- 
orities and have the cause of death investigated. 

Here Monsieur, the landlord, broke down completely. He 
would tell all he knew but he asked that no further appeal to 


86 


the authorities be made; it had all been arranged; further 
publicity would injure his house which had always borne a 
high reputation. 

“Very good, what had Monsieur to tell; he was listening.” 

“Yesterday morning. Monsieur, a young man came here on 
foot; exactly as Monsieur has come today. Hie gave me no 
names; two napoleons answered the purposes as well. Mon- 
sieur will remember that he himself has given no name, but 
one napoleon instead. He had a bag which he carried by a 
strap passed about his neck and under his left arm. Oh, so 
like that Monsieur carries, and he was just about Monsieur’s 
age, too. What a coincidence ! He came one day, and Mon- 
sieur, so like him, followed the next. He had been drinking 
before he came, he drank all day and until he retired for the 
night. Oh, Monsieur, what could the waiters do? What 
could I do? The guest asked for liquor, paid for what was 
served to him, would not be denied ; it must be given.” 

“Well, what then?” 

“He asked for another candle from the maid and sent me 
a franc for it and he asked the maid if she spoke English, 
telling her that he was an American| When the maid attended 
in the morning to put the room in order Monsieur lay dead 
upon the bed. A doctor was called but what could he do? 
It was useless. A phial upon the table told the story. What 


87 


can we do but bury the body? What has he left? Thirty- 
two napoleons and a few francs but that is little, very little 
for the trouble and distress caused by such a death in the 
house. The cost of burial may not be much but think of the 
discredit to the inn, to have a suicide occur here.” 

“Would Monsieur come and view the body?” Monsieur 
would, and go through his baggage, too. Ah, but that was 
soon done, there was little, very little ; stockings, pocket hand- 
kerchiefs, some linen; no letters. No mark upon any of the 
clothes. “Yes, quite true there is nothing to indicate who he 
was or from whence he has come.” 

The man was young and in life had been handsome though 
there was a dissipated and distressed look about the eyes and 
mouth. The traveller’s sympathies were a good deal enlisted ; 
the stranger had died unknown, unidentified, he might be 
sought in vain for years by his friends. It so worked upon 
his mind that he returned to the chamber later in the evening, 
partly from pity, but more to fix the dead face in his recollec- 
tion. There was a candle burning at the bedside and by its 
light, he thought he saw a movement of a muscle of the face. 
He called the landlord. 

“Summon a medical man at once ; there is life in this man, 
and it may be revived. *At once,’ I say; go, go.” 

“But, Monsieur, the death took place — ” 


88 


“Then I appeal to the public authorities; choose between 
doing what I asked and an investigation.” 

“The doctor shall be brought. Monsieur; I will myself go 
for him.” 

The doctor looked bored and annoyed. 

“This man,” he said, “has been dead for hours. What you 
earnestly wish, you think may be true. Do you not think that 
I am as eager as you can be to restore life, but there is no life 
here to restore ; the man is dead. As dead as he ever will be.” 
He waved his hand and turned towards the door. As he 
turned there was another slight movement of the face. 

“There was another movement on that face,” the traveller 
said. “Come back for a moment.” 

“Because you looked upon it so intently, it moved in your 
mind and the impression communicated itself to your eyes. 
I tell you again : That man is dead.” 

“And I tell you in reply that he shall not be buried until 
I am convinced that he is dead. I will not rely upon your 
opinion without tests. I have money, help me to satisfy my- 
self. If I am wrong you will be well paid. If I am right 
you will be paid, but I need say nothing to you of that.” 

The doctor approached the bed and both stood looking at 
the body before them. 


89 


“Poor fellow,” he said, “a fine, manly face; I would that 
I could restore — ” He seized the traveller’s arm; “there was 
a movement of the face again, slight, but it was there — I own 

it.” 

“What ! Landlord, send for my valet at once ; bring cognac, 
hot water, hot towels, anything you have; here is a night’s 
work before us. Monsieur, I congratulate you upon your 
discernment; it was better than mine. If this man’s life is 
restored he owes it to you. 


V. 

“Monsieur will not need my services further, he is restored,” 
the doctor said, three days later, addressing the traveller, but 
waving his hand towards the young man who had been brought 
back to life, and who was sitting upon the side of the bed. He 
looked strong enough but very subdued. 

“He can travel tomorrow if he will; how wonderfully de- 
voted you have been; he ought to know. I tell you now this 
young man saved your life. Monsieur ; it was not me at all. I 
had condemned you to burial.” 

The sick man nodded. 

“I know it and am grateful as I can be,” and he looked 
earnestly at the traveller. 


90 


“You can show your gratitude in one way only,” the doctor 
said. “Let him have the life that he has saved; give it to him 
for a time at least, if he will take it; do not try to throw it 
away again, or you may not be so fortunate the next time.” 

“I am afraid. Monsieur Doctor, that with the kindest mo- 
tives, you put both this gentleman and myself in an embaras- 
sing place. I do not object from pride, or because I would not, 
in my unfortunate position, avail myself of the kindness of 
anyone who would help me, but he has done so much for me 
already that I cannot ask, nay, accept, more from him if it 
involves his altering other plans.” 

“I may speak for the gentleman, then,” the doctor replied 
“for we have conferred. He takes a deep interest in you, has 
offered to look after you for a time. Wliat he would do, al- 
though I expressed it in different language than his own, is 
his own desire; he would aid you until you are passed all 
danger.” 

Then the traveller spoke : 

“I am without any particular object or engagements. I 
was on my way to Vannes, but I have nothing to do there 
and need not go. I am quite at your service if you would like 
my companionship; the doctor thinks it best that it should 
be so. If you accept it say so frankly ; if you do not want it, 
as frankly say no.” 


91 


“Then, I do gratefully accept it and will stay with you as 
long' as you will keep me. I have begun to think myself over, 
something that I have never done before, and it may be that 
I will turn out better than you expect. Monsieur Doctor, the 
landlord has my money ; let me know the sum I owe you in 
francs; my debt of gratitude I can never repay. I will give 
you what I can and send you the rest as soon as I reach 
Paris. Here is my visiting card,” and tearing a piece of blank 
paper, he wrote upon it and gave to each, the name, “Henry 
Eandolph Newton.” 

The doctor bowed and gave to each a card in return, but 
the traveller only said : “My name is Eugene Mason.” 

“Then Monsieur Mason and Monsieur Newton, I will bid 
you adeiux. I have no charge and will accept nothing. I 
blundered at the outset, and only corrected my mistake at 
this gentleman’s earnest entreaty. Again, adieux,” and the 
doctor took his leave. 

“Are you strong enough to go to the garden ?” Mason asked. 

“Yes, I feel about as strong as ever. I would like to return 
to Paris tomorrow, if agreeable to you. I expect to find a 
letter there with a remittance; you hesitate; anywhere then, 
and I will have the letter forwarded. The doctor was kind 
but I can not take his offer; as soon as I am in funds I will 


92 


compensate him in the form of a present. Now I am with 
you to the garden.” When they were seated there, the young 
man resumed; ‘‘If you are to take care of me you ought to 
know whom you have in hand. I am Harry Newton, the idol 
of his mother, the youngest and spoiled child of my family, 
and I know now, though I never realized it before, that I am 
a half-crazy simpleton.” 

“Don’t say that ; your looks, you figure, your breeding, your 
conversation, all belie your words. If you would have me 
judge from the way I found you, it does not prove what you 
say, for I tell you, without going further, that I have con- 
templated ending my own life too, though now there is no 
danger of my doing so. I am not a half-crazy simpleton, nor 
are you. Go on with your story.” 

“I was brought up in New York, well brought up, but 
everything I did was praised, until I ceased to discriminate. 
As it was easier to act without application and, as I received 
as much praise and encouragement when I failed as I would 
have received if I had succeeded — my want of success always 
being attributed to some cause other than the right one, I 
became lazy and consequently ignorant and selfish. You may 
find those things in me yet, for my attempt at^ reformation is 
only three da3^s old and it is only within that time that I have 
come to know or understand myself at all; I will keep them 


93 


under cover to you, as much as I can ; if they come to the sur- 
face you must bear with them. How I got into college I don’t 
know; I was conditioned in about everything and I failed to 
graduate, but I was told at home that I had been discrimi- 
nated against, those less qualified had been graduated with- 
out any question, and I was foolish enough to believe it. Then 
I fell in love ; you may not believe it, but it is true, that my 
love was returned. What the lady saw in me to love, looking 
back as I do now, I can not imagine. I am not ill looking, it 
may have been my personal appearance, but taking myself in 
review, I know that a more conceited, selfish, ill-mannered 
coxcomb, or one less deserving of the love of a lady like 
Georgiana Alsop did not exist. She was gentle and forbear- 
ing to my faults but never flattered me, except that she would 
sometimes say that I had ability enough and a good affec- 
tionate disposition, if it had not all been turned awry. The 
first I was ready enough to believe ; the last nettled me a good 
deal and I resolved that I would show her that other women 
held me more highly and appreciated me, if she did not, and 
make her jealous if I could. But here my training interfered. 
I must accomplish my end in the easiest way and the easiest 
way was to hang about the theatres and associate with the 
chorus girls. As long as I had money, and I had plenty, they 
were willing to receive my attentions. I carried these atten- 
tions so far that Miss Alsop resented it. ^Hot,’ she said, Tte- 


94 


cause I showed attention to other girls, but to such girls/ A 
quarrel was the result, and, though it nearly broke both our 
hearts, it was not made up. My family were alarmed at my 
associations and sent me to Paris to live for a year. 

“Up to that time I had drank moderately; after I came 
to this side I became dissipated, seldom going to bed sober. 
I felt that my life was a failure but I did not know why. At 
Trouville I met Miss Amelia Eevere, an American girl who 
was studying art in Paris. Her father and mother were with 
her, as they did not think it well that she should be abroad 
alone. How I became infatuated with her I do not know, but 
I was soon laying out upon her all the money I got from home, 
at that time a large amount. She seemed to appreciate me 
and was constantly pointing out strong points in me that I 
had never known and do not now believe that I possess. I 
was a little disgusted that her father should apply to me to 
borrow money so often but his daughter was not to blame for 
that. She seemed in love with me and showed it in every way 
for a while. Some meddlesome person wrote to my father 
and mother of what was going on, and my allowance was re- 
duced to very moderate proportions. 

“I told Amelia of what had happened; she did not seem 
surprised, but I think she must have felt that she was the 
cause of it. I could do little for her then and I frankly said 


95 


so. She made no reply but soon her manner changed and she 
treated me almost with contempt. I remonstrated, she called 
me a fool and we had a lively quarrel. I saw nothing before 
me; I left off drinking for a day or two, and perhaps losing 
the effect of my accustomed stimulant made me low spirited. 
I determined to end my life, but I did not want my family 
disgraced by my suicide, so removing everything by which I 
could be traced, and taking to the road, I came to these moun- 
tains. You know the rest.” 

^^And you are still infatuated with Miss Amelia?” 

don’t know; the shock which I have had, a release from 
the grave, has worked a complete change in me. If I am to 
live, I must live for something. I really know nothing of the 
girl; she may be fond of me and I would not begin my new 
life by a dishonorable action. My earlier affection for Miss 
Alsop is still strong; the only real one. I will take your 
advice as to whether I shall see this woman again.” 

"And I will give it when we return to Paris and I am able 
to take in the whole situation. We will dismiss the subject 
now. You have headquarters in Paris ?” 

"Oh yes.” 

"And so have I ; and while they are quite humble, I must 
ask you to live at them with me.” 


96 


■v 

\ 

‘‘If it is for the sake of economy, I am rich, or my family 
is, which is the same thing. You need not consider the ex- 
pense of our living.” 

“I am not Amelia, and will not prey upon your purse ; but 
aside from that I prefer to live where I am known; will you 
come ?” 

“Wherever you go ; your decision is mine.” 

“Then we will make a mental record here that on the 29th 
day of September, in the year of Grace, 1893, you were re- 
stored to life, and so depart.” 


VI. 

“You have not met Miss Revere since we returned to 
Paris ?” 

“No, I promised you that I would not. That should be the 
best answer. She sent a note to my former lodging asking me 
to call. I did not think it worth mentioning to you ; she does 
not even know where I am.” 

“And you had better not let her know where you are, either. 
Listen to this report, which you can verify yourself, if you 
doubt it.” 


97 


^^^Louis Eevere, known as Colonel Eevere; born in the 
West Indies; an adventurer wholly irresponsible and unprin- 
cipled. His wife is an American woman and his children, a 
son and daughter, were born in the United States of America. 
The daughter is studying art and the family is supported by 
her. She is the mistress of the Baron Jean Le Pierre, promi- 
nent in musical circles, who allows her an amount of money 
sufficient for her education and support. She has lately ob- 
tained considerable sums from a dissipated American. The 
son is a lad of fourteen.’ Have you any doubt of the accuracy 
of this report?” 

Newton did not answer at once and his companion re- 
peated the question. 

^^No, no ! It was not that I doubted. I was thinking of the 
horrible nightmare from which I have just emerged. I wrote 
to my mother as soon as I came here with you, wrote her 
frankly what I had been and what I hoped to be in the future ; 
that I had been dead and was alive again. I think she sus- 
pects that I have contracted the habit of killing myself; that 
unless she is with me I may not be able to reform it; at any 
rate she sails a week from yesterday by the French line, and 
will be here week after next. She did not know into what good 
hands I had fallen ; I tried to tell her but she will not under- 
stand until we meet face to face.” 


98 





*‘Your letter, if it is as blunt as you tell me, must have 
given them a shock; whatever terms you used the story was 
there, that you had led a wild life, had been led to commit 
a rash act, and had been rescued from its results by an acci- 
dent and that you were living with a stranger about whom 
you knew nothing.” 

“It might appear so upon the paper but I can say to my 
father and mother, as I say to you, that that man is no 
stranger to me now; I know him well and some day, if all 
goes right, he will know how fond I have become of him. It 
is not from gratitude alone though it began with that, it is 
that I have come to know you.” 

Mason turned away his head. 

“I wish,” he said, “that I was more worthy of your regard ; 
but let that pass. Do you intend to return to Hew York with 
your mother ?” 

“I hardly know. My father is in bad health, and, now that 
I have determined to be good for something, I may be of use 
to him. My course will depend somewhat upon yours. If I 
go back to Hew York you will go with me. I do not ask 
whether you are here for pleasure alone, or upon business, but 
in either case what I offer will be an advantage to you.” 

His companion remained silent for a few moments; then 
began upon another subject. 


99 


VII. 





A week later the young men were again discussing Harry 
Newton’s future movements. Without giving any promise he 
inferred from Mason’s conversation that he intended return- 
ing to America soon. Both seemed tired of living abroad and 
agreed that it was better to be engaged in active business in 
their own country. The subject of the Eevere family had 
come up again, but was being laughingly put aside, when New- 
ton, answering a knock at the door, was told that a lady 
wished to see him. 

“It is probably Amelia,” he said to his companion. Then 
to the servant, “Did she give her name?” 

“No, she said that Monsieur would see her.” 

“Let her come up,” Mason said, “if she is determined to 
pursue you we will both talk plainly to her now and tell her 
that her character and designs are known.” 

“You should receive her at the door, then,” Newton an- 
swered. “It is better so. I do not want any affectionate 
demonstrations here.” 

The servant returned, ushering in a handsome, middle-aged 
lady. She neither spoke to or looked at Mason, but, rushing 
past him, threw her arms about Newton, exclaiming: 

“My own dear, dear boy !” 


100 


The son was almost as much affected as the mother; both 
were sobbing and Mason turned his back to them. After a 
little time, Newton led the lady forward and presented her to 
Mason as his mother. She was polite, a little formal, but 
cordial, too. She had come, she said, a week earlier than she 
intended ; she was so worried and distressed that she could not 
wait. So this was the gentleman about whom Harry had 
written, and to whom she owed so much ; she had his letter in 
her pocket and some day she would like to read it to Mr. — . 
“Mason,” her son suggested. “Oh, yes. Mason, she never 
could remember names, and then he would know what nice 
things Harry had said about him.” Then she gave her son 
the news from home. His father was very ill and she had 
not shown him the letter that had brought her here; but 
“Harry,” she said* “why do you live in such disreputable 
lodgings? I was told before I came here tonight that the 
reputation of this place was really very bad; that men who 
are under suspicion lodged here and for a small sum were 
warned if the authorities were seeking them. Oh, Harry, 
that you should select such a place; come with me at once to 
the Chataham, where I am staying, and bring your friend if 
you like.” But here the friend, so invited, interposed to say 
that, while he appreciated her kindness, he could not ac- 
cept it. 

“That is as you may feel about it,” Mrs. Newton said. “I 
do not wish my son to stay here; it is out of keeping with all 


101 


his associations. He was always a proud boy from a child. 
He was ten years younger than the youngest of my other 
children ; the older ones treated him as a pet ; they taught him 
all manner of tricks ; curly-headed little fellow that he was ; he 
was bright, an uncommonly bright child ; grew up to be a very 
bright young man; I need not say that he was handsome, 
you can see that yourself. As for all this bad conduct about 
which he writes me I can not believe it; it is so unlike him; 
he must have exaggerated, but, whether it is true or not he 
goes back to New York with me, where there is a young lady 
dying for him. Don’t blush, Harry, Georgiana is just de- 
voted to the ground you walk upon, and you will tell me so 
when you see her. She tries by all sorts of ways to hear from 
you, without asking outright, but I only smile and sometimes 
tell her a little 

‘^ell, the carriage is waiting at the door. I am sorry to 
take you away from your friend, I suppose he will feel lonely ; 
but your mother has the first claim upon you ; he knows that.” 

“1 will go with my mother to her hotel and return in two 
hours,” Newton said, ^^e can do all our talking by that 
time.” 

‘‘No, Harry; don’t make a promise that you cannot keep; 
you are to go with me to the Chataham tonight and tomorrow 
have your luggage brought there and you are to remain there 


102 


with me until we sail for home. Do not mislead your friend 
or acquaintance or whatever the relation is, it is all arranged.” 

Before Newton could reply, Mason, smilingly, interposed; 
“That is exactly what Mr. Newton should do and I quite ap- 
prove of your arrangement. Do not think of me for a mo- 
ment; your own welfare, Mr. Newton, and the wishes of your 
family are the first consideration. He will remain with you, 
madam, as you have asked him, I know.” 

“Spoken like a sensible man. Harry, I am glad to find 
you in such good company. I was afraid, as you had written 
me you had picked up a stranger, his influence over you might 
not be good ; but I am well satisfied. Get your hand-bag and 
come with me.” 

The tears almost started in Harry Newton’s eyes, but his 
mother did not notice it, or that what she had said was causing 
him pain. 

“Eugene,” he said, “as you have urged me to go with my 
mother for the night I will. When I see you tomorrow morn- 
ing we will talk further. Good bye then; for the first time 
since we came together we are to separate for a while.” 

“Don’t talk nonsense, Harry, or Mr. Mason will think you 
silly. Come along with me and I will tell you all about 
Georgiana Alsop. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Mason, 


103 


for the kindness you have shown to my son. My husband 
will write thanking you also, when we return to New York.^’ 


VIII. 

It was eleven o’clock before Harry Newton returned to his 
lodgings. His mother had come late to breakfast and he 
would not leave until he had seen her. After breakfast was 
over, she had detained him with talk about some trifling 
things. As soon as he was released, he hurried away to where 
he had left his companion but the room was deserted. A note 
addressed to him lay upon the table. With trembling hands 
he opened it and read: 

“You need me no further. The crisis with you is past and 
an honorable and useful life is before you. A merciful provi- 
dence threw us together, as merciful to me as to you, but the 
end is answered; we will never meet again. Affectionately, 
E. M.” 

He read the letter over and over again. Was this man of- 
fended with him? Had the unfeeling manner of his mother 
made him determine to see no more of mother or son? The 
letter could not mean that; he might be unduly sensitive and, 
wishing to avoid a change of hotels being urged upon him, 
have taken lodgings elsewhere. 


104 


“We will meet again, dear boy,” he said; “you may shake 
me off, if you will, but it shall not be while I am your debtor, 
I will trace you if I can and if you do not drive me away, we 
will meet again.” 

He began his inquiries with the concierge. Monsieur had 
paid all he owed to the house, it was not much, and departed. 
Where Monsieur had gone he did not know, any more than 
where he had come from; the past history of their guests, 
where they had been, or where they were, or where they went, 
was never asked about in that house. No, Monsieur had re- 
ceived no letters there; had left no address; no one knew 
more of Monsieur than he, why should they? He saw him 
most. Though he set inquiries on foot in every direction dur- 
ing the time he remained in Paris he could get no trace of his 
friend. Upon his return to New York he had the passenger 
lists of the outgoing steamers, for a long time before, exam- 
ined, and the lists of the incoming packets, both upon the 
Northern and Southern routes were furnished to him for 
months after. But upon neither did the name of Eugene 
Mason appear. 

Then a feeling, bordering upon the supernatural, took pos- 
session of him ; who was it that had saved his life ? This man 
had come to him at the critical point, brought him back to 
consciousness, protected him while he needed protection, then 


105 


disappeared. All efforts to trace him ended in this, that he 
was not in Paris, and had not left by any of the ordinary 
routes ; thinking from time to time, until he was tired, without 
advancing further, these impressions gradually faded out. 
But the change that had taken place in his character was per- 
manent. From his dead self he had built up a new man, 
avoiding every past error and habit so carefully that he would 
not even smoke. But most careful was he to close his ears to 
everything that might lead to substituting the artificial for 
what was real and true. When on the night before his mar- 
riage, his brother, Philip, who at first had doubted the sincer- 
ity of his reformation, took him by the hand, saying, ‘‘You 
have become a good, clear-headed, high-minded, reliable man, 

Harry, a brother to be proud of, and I can tell you ” he 

cut him short with this. 

“I dare say that you can, but don’t. I am glad to have your 
love, dear brother, but do not, I entreat you, give me your 
praise. I suffered so much mischief from imdeserved praise 
that even a word of encouragement alarms me now. I am 
better than I used to be. I am doing my best. Georgiana 
knows it or she would not marry me. You know it or you 
would not have advanced me more than two hundred thousand 
dollars from my father’s estate before it was due. Help me if 
I stumble, but, as long as I can walk alone, let me pass on 
unnoticed.” 


106 


IX. 


“Hi say, maister ! Maister ! Hi say, these ^ere victuals, ye 
know, will ye ’ave ’em now or will I take ’em below for to keep 
’ot ? Hexcuse me for touchin’ of ye, maister.” 

“Why, King,” the other replied, bringing in his head from 
the open window, out of which he had been leaning, “I didn’t 
know you were here. I’ve been watching some street singers; 
poor creatures, they work hard for little pay. Set the things 
down, King ; you needn’t wait. I can help myself.” 

‘^ell, sir, I be always glad to wait on a rale gent; an’ if ye 
don’t object, Hi’ll stay an’ wait on ye now. Hi ’aven’t hover 
much to do, onyways; ’ere, sir, is three bob, as Hi got from 
Smith, the stationer, for whatsomever you call the paper.” 

“A translation from Spanish into the English language.” 

“Hexactly, sir. Well, sir, ’e takes it, that there paper, an’ 
’e says, ‘Habout fourpence a page hit’s worth, nine sheets 
there is.’ Of course, Hi didn’t know nothink about it, whether 
it was much or little, but I knowed ’e’d cheat if ’e could an’ 
Hi hup an’ says, ‘Hit’s worth more an’ that, by a good sight;’ 
yes, maister, them’s just the words Hi used, accordin’ to my 
best recollection. ‘Mind your business,’ ’e says, ‘that’s the 
reg’lar price; take the money, an’ get hout,’ ’e says, ‘or Hi’ll 
put it back in the till,’ ’ee says; han’ with that, ’e ’ands me 
this three bob. Hi took the silver but didn’t move for a 


107 


minute, when who should come in but a man all a-blazin’ in 
livery, a-haskin’ for that Aforesaid paper — an’ Smith gives it 
to him as Hi gives it to ’ee. ‘Ow much? says the man in 
livery. ‘Heighteen bob,’ says Smith, bowin’, rubbin’ ’is hands, 
an’ smilin’ as ’e give ’im change for a sovereign an’ tried to 
look as if he ’adn’t been a-robbin’ of you. That’s the way 
them fellers do poor men in Lunnon.” 

“Well, King, here’s one of the three for your trouble. You 
must remember that Mr. Smith keeps a shop and assistants, 
and pays taxes, and has a good many expenses that we do not; 
he may not be so far out of the way, after all. But whether 
he is or not, we must take whatever he gives us or do without 
work. King, you told me you used to be a soldier.” 

“I was sogerin’ for a good bit.” 

“What kind of life was it?” 

“For a rough feller like me it wa’nt so bad. I never did 
object to bein’ bossed around as some of the boys did. Hi 
could just ’old my tongue and take what the other dogs 
got.” 

“You mean, then, that it was a dog’s life ?” 

“You’re just right, sir. Only not so good a life as a ’ouse 
dog gets. I didn’t ask for that kind of life myself; my old 
gov’nor had twelve children, mostly boys ; the minister he says 


108 


to him one day, says he, ‘Tupper, whatever be you goin’ to do 
with 1 all these ’ere boys ?’ 

“ ‘Make sogers of ’em,’ the gov’nor answers. My old gov’- 
nor was a queer start. ’E didn’t do nothink much fer us; 
sometimes the ’ull lot didn’t get more than twopence a day, 
but he thought we owed sights to ’im ; give ’im all our money 
if ’hany we earned and him a-buyin’ beer and whatsomever 
helse he wanted an’ treatin’ heverybody and leavin’ us to starve 
it hout. It wa’nt the kind o’ life Hi’d stick to any longer 
than Hi could ’elp. So one day I says to the gov’nor, ‘Heigh- 
teen year old Hi be to-day an’ I wish to be ’prenticed to a 
mason.’ ‘ ’Old your tongue,’ the gov’nor says ; ‘no high flyin’ 
here; you’re to be ’prentice to the Queen for a soger,’ an’ 
down I was put in black and white in the Queen’s service, 
Richard Martin Farquar Tupper. There was a man of that 
name as wrote books and the gov’nor made out as he was a 
relation, though he never knowed what; that’s how I got all 
them names.” 

“I thought your name was King.” 

“So they calls me; Hi’ll tell you why. In our company 
there was nine men Richard by name. They couldn’t call ’em 
all Richard nor yet Dick, for hup starts every man to answer 
to them names when ’foresaid Richard or Dick was called 
hupon. So they puts a ’andle to each name. There was Dick, 


109 


then Ked Eichard, Black Richard, Surly Richard, Good 
Richard, Cussin’ Richard, Long Fingered Richard (called 
long for short), an’ Bad Richard; the names give out there 
han’ I ’adn’t got one yet, an’ they didn’t know w’atever to call 
me. Some smart cove sings out, ^Call ’im King Richard!’ 
The ’andle was hall they used, so arter that they calls me 
King, an’ that’s the name I goes by, though ’tain’t my real 
one.” 

‘‘Well, King, if that’s the name by which you are to be 
called, I may have to ask a favor of you — ask you to hunt up 
for me a regiment that is going to India soon. You know 
which is best, and how to enlist.” 

“Maister (Hi calls you so ’cos you never give no name ’ere), 
you don’t think of takin’ the shillin’, do you ?” 

“But I do, though ; I am sick of this kind of life ; tired of 
London ; I might as well be anchored somewhere.” 

“Don’t you do it, maister, don’t you do it. You’ll be sorry 
if you do, an’ in five minutes arter the job’s done you’ll want 
to be hout again. For a poor devil like me it’s well enough, 
a man need’nt know much about w’at’s in print, or be a real 
gent, to stop a bullet or to shoot well, but you’re a gen’lman, 
any fool can see that. Your clo’s is pretty shabby an’, may- 
hap, there ain’t much in your pockets ’ceptin’ the two bob you 
just put there, but. Lord bless you, maister, you’re time an’ 


110 


times over too good for a soger. Just throwin’ yourself away, 
it is. Look at yourself now. A man wants to talk Dutch, or 
Spanish, or Italian, or French, or English, or Eoosian. Let 
’im say the word an’ you’re there right hoff, as big as life, 
ready to talk right up to ’im. A man wants figgerin’ done, 
‘maister’s the man for yer money,’ I says, an’ there you are 
again. That ain’t the kind of a man to go a-sogerin’, that 
ain’t. 

“Now, we start hout, you an’ me, say, an’ we gits a few 
soverings together, mayhap. You gets first class clo’s an’ 
maybe I gets a few togs that looks like a livery. You starts 
hup some money-makin’ way, an’ I gives up polishin’ shoes, 
an’ goes with you. 

“Hi’m a gent’s servant. Hi am, an’ this gent, a gen’lman 
all hover, is my maister; ’e’s a mighty big un, too. An’ so 
we ’umbugs the folks, not about ’ow clever you hare, for that’s 
hall reg’lar an’ true, but habout the money you ’ave in your 
pockets. In a little w’ile one says to t’other, ‘That maister is 
a hawful rich cove, a big un,’ they says, ‘ ’e’s the man fer ye. 
’E knows w’at to do with your money, pays, let me see, twenty 
per cent, interest, mayhap,’ an’ they comes right arter you an’ 
puts it hin your pockets. ‘Do just w’at you likes with it,’ they 
says, ‘we hasks no questions, ‘honly pay us twenty per cent, 
hinterest on our money.’ ” 


111 


“But what Avill we say to these people when they want us 
to give back the principal ?” 

“Go into the ’solvent court like a gent an’ pay a penny on 
the pun, see? The rest you puts away somewhere, an’ I does 
hall the swearin’ that’s wanted. You needn’t put your ’and 
to hany think or swear a bit. No, no, don’t you think of takin’ 
the shillin’, don’t think of it again. If what I says won’t 
work, there’s other dodges just as good that Hi can tell you 
about. Let me see — no, not now, for there’s the bell a-ringin’ 
an’ nobody a-hanswerin’ it. Susan, Susan, why don’t you 
hanswer that bell. Well, well, she don’t hanswer the bell or 
hanswer me, so I’ll go down myself. 

Mr. King (or Mr, Tupper) descended to the first fioor and 
the gentleman with whom he had been talking applied himself 
to the food before him. Soon King’s voice was heard again. 
He was coming up the stairs this time, in violent dispute with 
some one. 

“Hi tell you, ’e’s a heatin’ of his dinner. Ye cawn’t walk 
hin on a gent hunless ’e’s willin’. Hif I wan’t a little lame 
myself, Hi’d knock ye down first an’ turn you hover to the 
polls arterward. Say, maister. Hi hain’t a-lettin’ this ’ere 
man hin on ye, ’e’s a-comin’ hin spite o’ me. Shall I run for 
the polls or stay to ’elp put ’im hout ?” 

And following close upon the heels of the man whose ap- 
proach he announced. King came into the room. 


112 


The newcomer seemed a good deal embarrassed, quite at a 
loss as to how to begin. At last he said : 

‘T wish to speak with you upon private business, and, oif 
course, without this man’s presence.” 

King took it upon himself to reply- 

“No, ye don’t! Say, maister, do ye want this feller put 
hout? ’E’s ’ere, you know, without any hinvitation. Say, 
shall Hi throw him hout of the door or winder ?” 

“No, King; if the gentleman wishes to speak with me you 
may go below. I will ring if I want you.” King reluctantly 
withdrew, closing the door after him. 

“Excuse me,” the stranger said, “if I take the liberty of 
hanging my hat upon the door handle — ^the servant has his 
ear at the keyhole. I believe that I am speaking to Mr. Fred- 
erick Marvin, who left New York on the twenty-ninth of July, 
eighteen ninety-three? That being understood, I will first 
ask your pardon for this intrusion. It was necessary that I 
should meet you, and this fellow said that you were not lodg- 
ing here, refused to take my card, and roughly ordered me 
away. For reasons that I will explain, I would not be driven 
away, so I bolted past him and came in unannounced except 
as he heralded my coming along the stairs. I could not get 
at you in any other way, as you see. Allow me now to present 


113 


my card in person, Anthony L. Moore, of New York, Attorney 
at Law.” 

At first there was a surprised, a startled and distressed look 
upon the face of the man whom he addressed, but it soon 
changed to one of quiet resignation. It was some moments, 
however, before he answered, then in a low, subdued voice, 
evidently placing great constraint upon himself. 

“I am Frederick Marvin, and I suppose I know also the 
object of your visit, and why I am wanted. You wish me to 
return with you to America. That being so, there is very 
little between us to settle and that can be done with a few 
words on either side ; then you can leave me to myself.” 

“You are right in your conjecture; I am here to take you 
back, but it is no more than just that you should know the 
motive, then you can determine what course you will take, 
and, I may add, may not be so unwilling to talk to me. Let 
me say to you ” 

“If you have any feeling, any pity, do not. I will go with 
you, that should be enough. No further words are neces- 
sary.” 

“But let us at least understand each other. Let me explain ; 
I come from ” 

“I cannot prevent it, but I have asked you not to talk. I 
do not wish to hear what you have to say. You can make 


114 


your explanation when we reach New York, if you insist 
upon it; that will be time enough. I will not talk to you 
about the object of your errand, or if you insist upon forcing 
the subject on me, I will not talk to you at all. I do not wish 
to see your legal process. I will go with you without it; only 
let me alone until we reach America.” 

“Very good, if you are determined to close my mouth; if, 
after all the trouble I have taken, the hunt I have had for 
you, I am to get no credit or to be treated with ordinary 
civility, I must submit and you will hear nothing further 
from me of why I am here. I have hunted you all over France 
and Germany, until I find you in London. When we reach 
New York, others will have something to say to you, not me; 
there our acquaintance ends.” 

“I do not wish to be uncivil, sir, but I have thought so 
much, suffered so much, that I am not and will not be in any 
frame of mind to speak with you or anyone upon the subject 
that brings you here until I am compelled to do so. I know 
I must speak in time, but until that time comes, urge me no 
further; upon any other subject I will talk to you. I will stay 
anywhere you place me until your ship sails, then I will not 
need watching.” 

“Unless you try to jump overboard.” 

“Do not fear; something occurred soon after I came to 
France that has banished from my mind all thoughts of vio- 


115 


lence to myself. I give you my word of honor, though you 
may not put much value upon it, that I will not try to escape 
from you here or upon -the water. Eely upon it, you shall de- 
liver your prisoner safe in New York.” 

“Upon other subjects, then, I may talk to you without of- 
fense ?” 

“Yes; any other.” 

“To-day is Monday; we will not sail for home until Satur- 
day; come to the tailors with me now and order some clothes, 
yours are very bad; shabby and quite worn out; I would be 
ashamed to travel with one so poorly dressed. You need not 
fear, the money that will pay for your outfit comes from a 
source to which you will not object, put in my hands for the 
very purpose. You hesitate still ? Do not, I beg of you ; it is 
unreasonable and cruel ; I know you are not so ill-natured as 
that and that you will come. Next, you are to leave here, and 
go with me to the Savoy, where I lodge. Under the agree- 
ment proposed by yourself, you are bound to do so and to take 
up your quarters there with me while we remain. While we 
are there you must treat me as a companion. Whether you 
like it or not, it must be so ; otherwise we will both be embar- 
rassed and unhappy. I did not come here to be kicked around, 
but I pledge my word that I will not force my company upon 
you there, or anywhere, needlessly, and that *1 will not, while 


116 


we are compelled' to remain together, allude to the subject to 
which you so fiercely object. If you had listened to me, our 
stay here might have been happier for both, and so of our trip 
across the water. I cannot force information upon yon to 
which you will not listen. So, call back that clown that let 
me in, have him get your belongings together, and take them 
to our hotel, and we will be off to make the transformation in 
your wardrobe.” 


X. 

“It is a quarter past eight,” Mr. Anthony Moore said, con- 
sulting his watch; “in ten minutes a carriage will be at the 
north entrance to the hotel. You are to go with me and to be 
delivered over to the man by whom I have been employed; 
that accomplished, my work is done and I see you no more. 
I am sorry that you could not have given me at least a little 
of your company on the steamer, but, as you were always read- 
ing, except at the table, where you said nothing, I did not feel 
that I should force conversation upon you or disturb you in 
your occupation or train of thought. Whatever misunder- 
standing there may be between us has been brought about by 
you and you only. I am correct, am I not ?” 

“You have done for me, in a matter so delicate, more than 
I could have believed any gentleman would do. There is no 


misunderstanding between us; you have only done your duty 
and with the best regard for my feelings. I am grateful to 
you for it and would show my gratitude if I could, but my for- 
tunes just now, as you know, are at rather low ebb. What 
awaits me I can well imagine, but I do not wish you to tell 
me; I am not afraid to meet it now, whatever it may be; 
two years of roving life have so changed me that I am indif- 
ferent to almost everything, and yet, for the sake of those 
who love me, for I hope there are still some who do, I had 
hoped that I might not be made a public spectacle; the time 
has been when it would have cost me almost my life, but that 
has passed. What I have sown must bear its fruit; it is the 
law of nature. It was not to avoid you, that I seemed to be 
constantly reading. It was to avoid everyone, and make my 
own sad thoughts my only companions.” 

“Don’t be despondent; an hour more will tell you the story. 
I am not breaking our agreement, about the subject of conver- 
sation, if I boast to you a little, for I am really very proud of 
this achievement of mine. I was born an amateur detective; 
as a boy I always liked to read detective adventures, always 
to think out ways for myself of tracing mystery. In a little 
more than three months from the time I set foot in Havre we 
are together in New York. In Germany you had traveled a 
good deal on foot; I traveled over the same route. You had 
been employed as a translator and an accountant sometimes 


118 


in matters involving the English language; I compared your 
writing with such as I had and your description with what I 
knew; finally I traced you to London. By that time I knew 
upon what sort of employment you depended, and I sought 
out all those who dealt in your kind of work. Some work had 
been done for a stationer by an unknown man; I followed it 
into the hands of the one who held it ; it was not yours. After 
four or five failures I found some of your writing and learned 
where you lodged; but I would not have been quite sure of 
you if I had not held your picture ” 

“A moment ; did you say that you had my picture ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Furnished to you for the purpose of tracing me ?” 

“Exactly.” 

“May I ask where you got it ?” 

“You must excuse me from telling you from whom it 
directly came. Indirectly it came from Miss Eandolph, for 
the purpose you name.” 

Frederick turned his back to the speaker. 

“It is all over,” he said, in a husky voice, “the sooner we 
leave here the better. I have no feeling about what becomes 
of me now. Only end the suspense and I am content.” 

“The end is near. Here is our coachman ; come with me.” 


119 


Moore opened the door of the house in front of which the 
carriage had stopped, with a pass key, and led his companion 
into the drawing room as if quite at home. 

“I must leave you finally, now,” he said. “I need not ask 
your promise that you will stay where you are until you meet 
those who are most interested in finding you.” 

“No, you may rely upon me.” 

“Then goodbye, and though you give me no credit for what 
I have done, good luck to you.” 

The outer door had hardly closed upon Moore when a ser- 
vant handed Frederick a letter. Before they came in, the 
lights had been turned so low that the room was almost in 
darkness, but approaching near to one that was a little 
brighter than the rest he was to able to see what the letter 
contained. It bore date that day and was addressed to him 
in the form of a business communication, for it began with 
“Dear Sir,” and ended with “Your obedient servants.” It 
was this : 

“As we understand you have returned to New York, we 
would be glad to learn whether you still consider yourself in 
our employ ? If so, you should go to work immediately. The 
amount due Waltham Brothers, upon the pledge of securities 
belonging to this office, which pledge by you, we hereby in* 
dorse and approve, has been paid by us, passed to the account 


120 


of profit and loss, and there is therefore due to you the sum 
of one hundred dollars salary which you had not drawn when 
your vacation began. Whether you determine to continue in 
our employ or not, we will always be glad to see you.” 

He was still looking at the letter, when a hand was laid 
heavily upon his shoulder and at the same moment the lights 
in the room were turned on. 

“Well, Eugene, you are not quite the prophet that you 
thought yourself ; here we meet again.” 

“But, Harry, I cannot understand it at all, though it is 
true that we meet and I am glad to see you again; tell me 
why 'and how I am here.” 

“I heard that you had arrived in New York. Let me pre- 
sent my wife. I spoke to her of you long ago, before we were 
married. This, Georgiana, is Mr. Eugene Mason.” 

“Marvin.” 

“I was mistaken, then, in the name. Mr. Eugene Marvin, 
whom I met in France. He did me a great service there and 

now comes to — to Oh, confound this masquerading! It 

is nonsense. This is all put up on you, Eugene. I can’t 
carry out my part. Georgiana, bring in the rest of the com- 
pany; the walking gentleman has broken down and spoiled 
the play. See here. Cousin Margaret, your turn has come to 
appear sooner than arranged. You are wanted on the stage; 


121 


the persecuted, long suffering leading man is ready to receive 
you, though dragged back to his native country and forced to 
live with his friends like an ordinary Christian.” 

While he was speaking Margaret Randolph came rushing 
down the stairs and into the arms of the astonished guest. 

“Fred,” she said, “though you broke your engagement with 
me, you know that I never broke mine with you. In the 
years of your absence, I have loved you more than ever, 
thought of you constantly, and I would have hunted for you 
the world over as Harry has done, if I had had the means and 
skill to do it.” 

Then talk more confidential between them followed, until at 
last, out of patience, Harry Newton said, “I do not like to 
interrupt such an interesting pair, but there is a little ex- 
planation due to you, Eugene, and if you will listen to me 
until I set you right, you may talk steadily to this lady for 
the next month. You went wrong, of course ; there’s no use 
denying it; and unwisely for you, but most fortunate for me, 
you took a long vacation. Conditions could not have been 
worse for either of us; you, wandering aimlessly about, in 
constant fear of trouble and disgrace, and I, a drunken vaga- 
bond. If ever there was divinity that shaped our ends it was 
here. I threw away my worthless life, worthless alike to me 
and to every one about me who had any real appreciation of 
what I was.” 


122 


“Oh, don’t say that, Harry,” his wife interposed. “Your 
life was as dear to me then as it is now. Think, too, of your 
mother.” 

“About this time, Providence, by whatever name you may 
call it — general or special — began to mend both our fortunes. 
In pity you picked up the life that I had thrown away and 
restored it; more than that, between the shock that I had re- 
ceived, and your association, I was restored to my better seif, 
and I am to-day a fair average citizen. Before I had time to 
do anything for you in return you disappeared, and I could 
get no trace of you. So we might never have met again, as you 
had predicted, if another special providence had not intervened. 
Smith, Morrison & Co. needed capital, and my brother, Philip, 
became a partner, furnishing most of the money to a bank- 
rupt business but with goodwill of some value. One day he 
called me to his office to pay over to me a large sum of 
money which he held as executor of my father’s estate. I 
asked for some of the bonds that the firm had held for a long 
time and, that I might make my choice, he handed to me 
their record book containing transactions for years past. Scat- 
tered here and there was memoranda in a hand that I had 
studied well. I knew every form of the letters in the farewell 
that you had left for me. In a moment my search for bonds 
was abandoned in the search for the man who had made that 
memoranda. It was easy enough to identify Frederick Eu- 


123 


gene Marvin with Eugene Mason, and I at once removed all 
possibility of injury to you if you were the man I had known ; 
then I found your friends, your parents, Mr. Hugh Eandolph, 
his daughter, Margaret, my second cousin, but I had never 
seen her. To my surprise I learned that I knew more of your 
whereabouts than any of your family or friends. To be quite 
sure that I was on the right track, I asked your mother for 
your picture. She had none; this lady refused to allow the 
one that she had to be seen, until Georgiana, by tears and 
entreaties, got possession of it. I had the good fortune to 
place the commission to find you in the hands of an enthusi- 
astic friend of mine; he would, he said, bring you home if 
alive,- or if you were not living, proof of your death. Judge, 
then,' of my chagrin when I received a cable message of fifty- 
three words, enough to increase the company’s dividends, 
saying that, though you had been found, you would not listen 
to my messenger; that you had grown so morose, so unlike 
your old self, that it was doubtful whether you would return 
if the true situation was placed before you, but that if you 
thought there was legal process against you to compel it, you 
might. Tony may have exaggerated a little, for he was dis- 
appointed ; he had not expected to meet such a rude reception. 
The description he sent to me was not of the man that had 
been accustomed to give me sage advice^ but it was all that 
was left of him I had known as Eugene Mason. I cabled in 


124 


return that you were to be got back, by the best means at 
hand ; that he could use any means to accomplish the end. I 
saw you at noon to-day, when you landed, though you did not 
see me. I had to put a good deal of constraint upon myself 
to avoid speaking to you then, but I left a letter for Tony 
saying that he was to stay with you at the hotel until night, 
then bring you here. Georgiana thought you deserved some 
punishment for the way you had treated the man who had 
hunted for you so long and so faithfully, and we three ar- 
ranged for an elaborate and confusing reception, but part of 
it was in bad hands — I could not carry it through. The 
memory of old times and what you had done for me was too 
strong upon me.” 

“I have a letter here from Smith, Morrison & Co. I cannot 
return to their employment, but I will take any other work 
that offers.” 

“Don’t trouble yourself about your work. That letter was 
to make your record straight. It is an admission that the 
bonds pledged were taken with the owners’ consent, though I 
do not believe that they were, all the same; for our purposes 
we must think so. But you may be interested to know that 
you will soon be placed in business where you will not only 
have an opportunity to show what is in you, but to carry out 
at once the contract with this lady, which she would not allow 
you to break.” 


125 


“Tell me the rest; what of Boh Morrison? Did he come 
back ? Did he own up ? This letter seems to indicate that he 
did. Poor Bob ! It was hard on him, with a wife and child, 
too. I thought of him often in my wanderings and pitied 
him, though for that matter I needed pity myself.” 

“He was kind enough, but he worried a good deal over what 
you had done. He would not let you be prosecuted, but fur- 
ther than that he would not go. He did not think that you 
should be allowed to return to New York, and his father did 
whatever he said. He was at the landing to-day, looking for 
someone, as it seemed; he must have seen you, but I suppose 
in view of what had passed he did not care to recognize you.” 

“I don’t understand you. You do not mean that he threw 
the blame on me alone ?” 

“Of course he did. He spoke kindly of you, though; 
begged that you be treated gently, but that you should not be 
allowed to return ; for some reason he was bitterly opposed to 
that.” 

“Bitterly opposed to my return, eh? Listen to this story.” 
And he told them how the trouble had come about. 

“I called upon him with my father,” Margaret said. “I 
thought he might have some influence, some power to change 
his father’s resolution, but he told us that payment of any 


126 


kind would be useless : the offense was criminal and could not 
be settled with money. The greatest kindness I could show 
you was to leave you to yourself.” 

‘‘What a cursed fool I have been ! I see his scheme plain 
enough now. When I see him I will try to beat some repent- 
ance into him, low-lived hound that he is; though, I sup- 
pose now that my first thought should be gratitude that I am 
here and free.” 

“He came near ruining his father,” Harry said. “Smith, 
Morrison & Company would have failed if they had not got 
hold of Philip with his money. When the arrangement was 
under way Mr. Morrison at first insisted that Eobert should 
have a partnership. Philip, who is pretty sharp, would not 
listen to it, as he thought him worthless and unreliable. 
Luckily for you, I suppose to conceal his own misdoings, 
Robert Morrison has let this story of the hypothecated bonds 
become known to very few and with them it is safe. You 
have cleared yourself in this circle from any criminal intent, 
though perhaps not from a technical offense. I will repeat 
the story to Mr. Morrison and my brother as you have given 
it to me. Philip has complete control at Smith, Morrison & 
Company now, and that will set you right with him. As to 
Mr. Morrison, he is so blind about his son that I do not think 
he will be affected much by what I tell him. Do let Robert 


127 


alone ; to do more than I propose will not help you. It might 
give publicity to what is not public, and I think best for- 
gotten. But what you have told us to-night lessens a good 
deal the value of that which I thought I 'Was doing for you, 
in return for what you had done for me. I cannot think of 
you now, as I did a few hours ago, as one morally dead and 
restored to life by me. Dead, as I was physically when you 
first saw me; as in my own imagination I can picture myself 
about to be buried like a dead dog — no, not a dead dog, either, 
but a dog with a spark of life yet in him — until you revived 
that spark and saved me from the grave. 

“But I feel that I have done a little; shown, feebly it may 
be, still shown, that the most worthless object, warmed back 
to life, may not prove so worthless, after all, and that a dis- 
interested kindly act is sure to meet its reward, however 
wretched and unpromising the one on whom it is bestowed 
may be.” 


128 


Printed under supervision of 
Jos. J. Rafter, 

New York. 




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